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tn Memoriam 


MICHAEL HENRY SIMPSON 


**But that large grief which these enfold 


Is given in outline, and no more,” 


ES 7-6 


BIGE 


CAMBRIDGE. 


WELC 


University Press 


ow, & Coy 





ia dawn is breaking. Nature utters her first joyful cry 

from every nest, and every leaf and flower awaits the glad 
moment of day’s return. The whole world looks upward to 
receive this renewed baptism of hope and promise, as the pure 
white light flushes again with rosy life. Standing in this un- 
sullied morning, with earnest eyes bent upon the coming day, 
and with the strength of youth drawn before him as a shield, 
the dear one we loved was suddenly stricken down. Before 
the shadows could grow old about him; before the freshness 
of the beautiful hour could deepen into pain or bitterness ; 
before the future, palpitating with secret burdens, could be- 
come cruel and restive, we numbered Harry among those 
who shall see only life’s morning and know only life’s joys. 
To reach that other shore ere the heat and weariness of the 
noonday, and to escape the stains of strife and human dis- 
appointment, could be the reward only of a soul eager to 


accept its duties, and resolute to deny its temptations on 


4 


earth. And thus it was in the full blush of the brightest 
hopes, and with all that manly ambition or noble desire 

holds dearest awaiting him, that a summons rang through : 
the cloudless sky, and we knew he was called to wear the 


crown of everlasting life. 


jn Memoriam 


MICHAEL HENRY SIMPSON. 





ICHAEL HENRY SIMPSON was born in Boston the 
M 19th of October, 1850. The first son, his birth caused 
the greatest rejoicings, and a strong, healthy physique gave 
promise of a long and happy future for the tenderly wel- 
comed child. 

A fairy godmother must have endowed him from his 
cradle with the best of gifts,— a sunny temperament; for 
his babyhood passed in a state of uneventful goodness, 
which is always so becoming to infancy, and so appreciated 
by the most indulgent parents. Before the little fellow 
could talk he had become the constant companion of his 
father, and was admitted by him to the position of the 
tiniest of friends and the very best of listeners. ‘The effect 
of this beautiful intimacy between father and son became 
very noticeable as the boy began to think and act for him- 
self. His independence of thought, the originality of his 


6 


suggestions, the singularly comprehensive action of his mind, 
were delightful traits to unfold and to guide in their first 
encounter with the laws of God and man. 

The impression of those primary lessons lasted long after 
their actual memory had passed away from the remembrance 
of both father and son, though their rare intellectual sym- 
pathy remained unimpaired through all the influences that 
naturally surrounded a boy of Harry’s character. Of course 
it was impossible to prevent plans and speculations from 
twining like tendrils around this plastic nature, and to grad- 
ually form and support the baby steps onward by arousing 
in the baby mind that intellectual germ which promised 
to be ardent, bold, and self-poised. Even ordinary children 
are capable of an intense mental development as unpleasant 
as it is unnatural after its amusing precocity has passed 
away; and if he had been merely bright beyond his years, 
he would have shared the usual fate of a commonplace child. 
But those who remember him then can understand the 
progress he made, and appreciate the great temptation it 
was to talk with him, and draw out his freshly born im- 
pressions. 

It would have been strange if, with this constant educa- 
tion, no fruits had been produced beyond the odd remarks 
of a precocious baby, to be treasured up in nursery annals, 
But, despite all the mental and moral training he received, 
Harry did not degenerate into a child who amuses and alarms 
the friends of the family with his bright speeches, nor did 


Yo 


his mind outstrip its healthy little frame. The ever-working 
brain seemed protected by a natural physical indolence that 
was a soft sheath for the active nervous power. Perfect 
health! the secret of happy babyhood, childhood, and man- 
hood, if it but last. , 

Harry’s keen sense of humor and quick appreciation of 
fun always caused the greatest entertainment among older 
people who chanced to awaken it. They could not help 
enjoying his absorption in the drollery or wit that happened 
to be going on about him. Perhaps there is nothing more 
inspiring than the genuine, hearty laughter of a little child. 
It rmgs out from such pure sources and it 1s so spontaneous 
that we love its music and pardon its noise, however boister- 
ous, that we may laugh ourselves from sheer sympathy. 
Harry would often become convulsed with merriment at the 
witty conversation of two dear and intimate fnends, and 
would forget to eat his dinner, in the excitement of taking 
im what was quick and sparkling, and far beyond the com- 
prehension of most children of his years. 

Yet, with all the boy’s sunny sweetness and amiability, 
he had a decided will of his own, and a temper that when 
aroused would fly, in good old Adam fashion, almost out of 
sight. There was no doubt at such times of his human 
nature, or the strong hold he had on life. The hot blood 
flowing so gently through its channels could on occasions 
bubble up and make the dreamy, languid eyes flash and flame, 


until those who loved him most would stand aloof in vague 


8 


alarm. He was not, however, an easy subject for punishment, 
so great were his faculties for discovermg some means of 
amusement under every circumstance; for if deprived of one 
pleasure, another always supplied its place. As dark closets 
were never considered legitimate means of correction, it was 
useless to place him in solitary confinement elsewhere, for a 
book, no matter what, would entertain him until the punish- 
ment was commuted, or he had served out his sentence. The 
fact was, Harry derived more pleasure than pain from being 
shut up, though the day was never so bright, and temptations 
for play were never so enthralling. 

One summer day at Saxonville, he suddenly awakened to 
the consciousness that he, and no one else, must govern him, 
and learned the first great lesson of self-control, as we all 
have to learn it, by accident. <A pair of flying-squirrels 
that had been given to him were the delight of his heart, 
and the most cherished of all his possessions; but on this 
summer day a sad fate overtook them in the shape of a New- 
foundland dog, and they were ruthlessly demolished before 
succor could arrive. Intense grief and an overwhelming 
sense of the enormity of this outrage done two helpless crea- 
tures committed to his care were too much for his equa- 
nimity, and he burst into a whirlwind of anger and excite- 
ment. White and trembling with passion, the child vowed 
speedy vengeance on the other pet of the household, declaring 
he would kill that dog instantly! It was unworthy to live 
a moment ; it was base, it was cruel, and hed let the guilty 


9 


brute see how good it was to be killed! But for the physi- 
cal force that was necessary to restrain him, there is no doubt 
he would have imperilled his own life to avenge his squirrels’ 
untimely death. This outburst of rage was so terrible to his 
mother that she talked to him with all the eloquence at her 
command, and so shadowed forth the dangers of giving way 
to his temper, that poor Harry listened half appalled. The 
truth of what was told him then became deeply impressed 
upon his mind, and from that very hour his efforts for self- 
control began. It was the turning-point, as he often said, 
and when tried beyond his strength, the memory of that day 
helped him to combat the fiery impulses deeply embedded 
in his loving nature. It may be truly said of him that 
during the last years of his life he never lost his ‘self-con- 
trol, and only at some act of injustice or wrong-doing would 
the quick glance and rising color betray the strength of his 
emotion. . 

Harry was eight years of age when he entered the Mayhew 
School. While there, an incident occurred so characteristic 
of his love of justice and his independence of action, it de- 
serves preservation here. Every Boston school-boy regards 
the Common, at coasting-time, as his especial property; and 
then, as now, the better classes were not inclined to have 
it usurped by roughs when that popular season arrived. The 
more aggressive young reprobates often showed fight, and, 
bemg of superior numbers, would drive away the well-regu- 


lated little boys from the choice coasts in a style that was 


10 


simply intolerable to their ideas of right. One afternoon 
Harry and W. F. Whitney, his intimate friend and classmate 
in after years, together with several others, were rudely assailed 
by a crowd of North End boys, and, to add to the indignity 
of being overcome, they had their pockets rifled. This was a 
little too much. Though the contents were not of any enor- 
mous value, every plundered trifle was instantly invested with 
an incalculable worth: the very things that they cherished 
most, and would n’t part with for the universe! 

The robbery was considered, by one and all, a vital matter, 
and after some discussion among the injured group it was 
decided to have recourse to the strong arm of the law. The 
cases came up in the Police Court in due time, and Harry and 
his friends were called upon to identify their possessions. A 
bullet-mould was the chief item. Had it been the Kohinoor 
itself, it could not have been more eagerly claimed as “ prop- 
erty,’ and Harry proven its rightful owner. The boys gained 
their case, and rushed home greatly elated with the success 
of their first appeal to justice. 

When the war of the Rebellion broke out Harry was about 
eleven years old. It was a time of intense excitement to 
him, child as he was, and while the first troops were 
marching through Boston he would spend all his leisure 
hours at the State House, or wherever the soldiers happened ~ 
to be, talking to them, asking innumerable questions, and 
only too delighted if they gave him a bayonet or a cartridge- 
box to hold. At night he came home flushed and enraptured 


1d 


with his day’s experiences. Of course he longed to go to the 
war. His proudest ambition was to be a drummer-boy, and 
often, while discussing the condition of the two armies with 
his father, he would exclaim energetically, “I tell you what, 
father, if the war lasts till I’m old enough, I shall surely 
go!” 

His patriotism was increased by a visit to Washington dur- 
ing the summer of ’61, just at the time of the first Bull Run 
disaster. In common with many Northerners, Mr. Simpson 
regarded the victory of our troops as a certain matter, and 
was only prevented from driving out to the battle-ground by 
Harry’s insisting on accompanying the party. Unwilling to 
risk the safety of his boy, he remained in the city, and thus 
probably escaped capture by the Rebels. Harry also had his 
- fortunes of war to relate on his return. One morning he 
thought it would be fine fun to take his bath in the Potomac, 
but he was soon discovered by soldiers in the fortifications, 
who, mistaking him for a rebel spy, poimted their muskets 
and fired just as he reached the shore. Luckily their balls 
fell wide of the mark, and Harry’s frank explanation soon 
convinced the men of his loyalty and his very innocent 
intentions. 

The generosity of his nature was quickly touched by many 
of these Washington experiences. He was seeing the world 
for the first time, and in what dire commotion did he find it! 
The spectacle of the jaded, dispirited troops returning from 


defeat, above all, made the most lasting impression. The 


12 


desire to help them became intensely strong within him. 
Those who knew Harry at this age will pleasantly recall 
his genial, open-hearted manner, and that courteous demeanor 
which seldom forms a part of the conduct of riotous boyhood. 
These were charming traits, and the more noticeable because, 
where every wish is gratified, and all-the little conceits of a 
boy’s heart are sympathized in, and encouraged by mother 
and sisters, he stands a fair chance of being spoiled, and of 
forgetting all about the wishes of other people. Harry had 
ample opportunity to become selfish in his childish fashion ; 
to hoard his treasures and amuse himself without stopping to 
consult the regulations of full-grown society. But home’s 
sweetest influences surrounded him, and in spite of its indul- 
gence he learned early to rule his inclinations with those firm 
principles which eventually threaded his warm, affectionate 
disposition like cords of steel, and to think how he could 
benefit others less fortunate than himself. 

Now, one of the fancies common to this epoch is the col- 
lecting mania, — whatever form it may assume, whether auto- 
graphs or postage-stamps,— and he had not escaped the 
prevailing taste. As we are aware, the stamp mania has been 
carried to extremes, the albums receiving fine ornamentations 
from even professional hands, often appearing in extra gild- 
ing, and sometimes adorned with brilliant illuminations. To 
arrange the precious contents—it is very precious to an 
enthusiastic collector !—4in an artistic style requires consid- 


erable patience and ingenuity ; and in time the volume be- 


13 


comes as dear to its possessor as ever a portfolio filled with 
proof engravings is to a connoisseur of art. Harry had 
gathered many valuable specimens into a book, that formed 
one of his pet ambitions and was the admiration of all his 
companions. At the time of his return from Washington the 
collecting fever was at its height, and travel-stained represen- 
tatives of foreign governments were thought to be well worth 
their weight in diamonds. The entire community had been 
ravaged in order to contribute paper mites to swell the con- 
tents of this all-important volume, when, one day, Harry 
rushed into his mother’s room and cried out impetuously, 
“Mother! I want to sell my postage-stamps, and give the 
money to the soldiers; may 1?” 

Fully appreciating the high esteem in which this wonderful 
book was held, the abrupt proposition caused no little sur- 
prise. “Certainly, I have no objection; but, Harry, you 
must be quite sure you are willing to make the sacrifice. 
Are you not afraid you may regret it when it is too late?” 
O no! here was something that was indisputably his own, 
and he could dispose of it for the benefit of those soldiers 
whose sufferings had troubled his heart ever since he had. left 
Washington. ‘No, mother, there’s not the slightest fear 
of my ever regretting it!”? And off he ran, perfectly happy 
in the thought that he could help along the cause. 

The collection did not remain very long in the market, 
for a few hours after, it sold for thirty dollars, and the money 


was immediately sent to the Sanitary Commission. Not a 


14 


sigh or a word of regret ever escaped him, although it was as 
great a self-denial as the boy could have made. The personal 
loss was completely neutralized by the exquisite pleasure it 
was to him to give, —to give what was his own beyond a 
single doubt. 

From twelve to sixteen Harry attended the Latin School. 
Its usual course of six years he accomplished in four, omit- 
ting the second, and leaving before the commencement of the 
final year. The reason for abbreviating the course was, that 
he might prepare for Harvard and accompany his family to 
Europe in the autumn. His parents felt a year’s travel 
would be of more benefit mentally and physically, than the 
mere drill of that last year of school. During those four 
years Harry was always among the first of his class, and 
his schoolmates used to say, for all he ranked so high, he 
never seemed to study. That was a vast mistake, for prob- 
ably no boy ever studied his lessons more diligently. He 
possessed two gifts that enabled him to crowd the labor of four 
hours into half that time, — application and the power of con- 
centration. Add to this power a clear receptive faculty and 
a retentive memory, and it 1s not so difficult to understand 
the studious instinct pressing him onward. No matter how 
arduous or how dry his task, a sense of enjoyment always 
appeared to enliven it. His mental capacity was more thor- 
oughly tested when he began his final preparations for col- 
lege. In order to accomplish them he left the Latin School 


the lst of May, 1866, and during the four succeeding months 


15 


crammed for the first Harvard examination. This examina- 
tion was passed successfully, with but one condition.. 

It was with a light heart that Harry set out on his first 
Huropean travels. ‘To a boy of his temperament ‘the pleas- 
ures of anticipation were greatly enhanced by the knowledge 
that not a duty was left unfulfilled. He seemed fairly brim- 
ming over with joyous animal spirits, and excited intelli- 
_ gence craving to be satisfied. We shall never forget him 
as he looked that autumn day, when he stood on deck waving 


!? So bright, so eager, he was the 


his friends “ good by 
very picture of handsome, happy boyhood. That year in 
Europe expanded and developed him without unsettling his 
studious habits. In the midst of all the distractions and 
fatigues of sight-seeing, not a day passed that did not have 
its share of Greek and Latin. His school-books were car- 
ried in his travelling-bag, and whenever or wherever he 
found a spare moment it was occupied with his book, and 
he would be as absorbed in it as though he were in the 
seclusion of his own home. 

It was a thorough enjoyment to see his keen delight in all 
these new scenes, his unfailing cheerfulness under all circum- 
stances, and to note that utter disregard of self which ren- 
dered him the most welcome of travelling companions; for, 
boy as he was, his readiness to sacrifice his own for others’ 
wishes made him often conspicuous without his ever dreaming 
of it. Harry’s firmness in adhering to what he considered 


right was a marked indication of the conscientiousness un- 


16 


derlying the light-hearted exterior, and no young Puritan 
could have been more stanch where a religious principle was 
concerned than he was. 

It so fell out that, late one Saturday afternoon, the party 
stopped by mistake at a dreary little town, and though pleas- 
ure-travelling on Sunday was thought wrong by one and all, 
it was decided to take a steamboat the next morning for about 
an hour’s sail, push on to a more desirable. resting-place, and 
eatly Monday cross the mountains by diligence. But Harry 
refused to accompany the others. He preferred remaining 
alone in a stupid village to taking what was evidently an 
unnecessary journey, or one in which mere personal comfort 
was concerned. 

liven people who may not quite sympathize with such a 
minor scruple must respect so rigid an adherence to principle 
in a lad of only sixteen. His moral courage was the pure 
blossom of a youth untainted by contact with the mixed 
ethics of a great world, and its very hardihood in resisting 
the easy demoralization of travel showed what deep root the 
New England education had already taken in that virgin 
soil. He dared do what many men would shrink from 
doing, — oppose the worldly idea of expediency and social — 
terrorism. 

The followmg August the family returned to America, and 
Harry at once resumed his regular studies. Any fears that 
so long a vacation might have unsettled him, were speedily 


dissipated when he began to work again. It was astonishing 


ae 


as well as gratifying to note how easily the old threads of 
studious routine were taken up, and how heartily he entered 
into all the preparations for Harvard, that “one condition” 


having been peaceably cleared away. 


COLLEGE LIFE. 


——$-—— 


HIS first plunge outside the home circle is a moral shock 

keenly felt by an affectionate boy, however much he may 
have revelled in the idea of the emancipation from home rule. 
All at once he ceases to be the child whose comings in and 
goings out have been tenderly watched, to find he is the man 
pressed by grave duties and many responsibilities ; and he sees 
stretching out before him four long years of drill for that 
battle of life wherein he is to win a name. The majority of 
young men accept this new state of affairs earnestly and in- 
telligently enough, and if the first burst of independence 
sometimes interferes with college discipline, it does not follow 
they are morally warped or inappreciative of their privileges. 
Self-government is terribly uncertain until it is tried by as- 
sault, and the weak places strengthened by common sense and 
experience ; and college has always been the crucial test of 
the nascent manhood of either saint or sinner. It is at that 
period, when the unformed character is first set adrift, that 
the real conflict begins. With Harry’s fun-loving disposition, 


every opportunity was afforded him to give way to the mere 


19 


enjoyment of his Freshman year, and probably no young 
fellow ever threw himself more joyously into college life than 
he did. But he believed in its work and pleasures going 
hand in hand. Whatever he had to do, in books, music, and 
athletic sports, was done with so much ardor and enthusiasm 
that he always got through successfully. And though he read 
quite as earnestly, it was the kind of study that never seemed 
to wear upon his exuberant. spirits. The clear, well-balanced 
mind at once asserted its power in this new position, and self- 
discipline began where home influence had left off. No duty 
was ever neglected for an amusement, and yet he found ample 
time for everything and everybody. 

One of his classmates writes of this peculiar facility of 


economizing time : — 


“JT never found Harry too busy to entertain a visitor, and he 
seemed free and delighted to meet his friends, notwithstanding 
his excessive labors. Aside from his college duties —and he was 
near the head of his class—he had enough work on hand to oc- 
cupy the time of any ordinary man, yet he never appeared busy. 
When talking with us he never seemed to take any especial inter- 
est in his own affairs, and never spoke of his own success or his 
fair prospects in the future. This ‘time for everything’ mysti- 
fied others beside myself. With all the work he had to accomplish, 
and with all the different calls upon him, he never made the excuse 
that he was ina hurry. He must have systematized his work or 
he could not have done so much; and a pliant system it must have 


been, for he was always ready to be called on at the most irregular 


20 


seasons. Beside college studies and reading, his music, rowing, 
fencing and boxing, he took a prominent part in the Pudding 
theatricals, and was an active member of the O. K. and an editor 
of the ‘Advocate.’ Yet in spite of this, his friends never went 
to his room to get him to take a walk, but they found him ready 
to put aside whatever he was doing and start at once. Perhaps 
it was the faculty of concentration that placed him on this com- 
fortable plane, and fairly enabled him to make time. Often in a 
crowded noisy room, he would take up a book and become so ab- 
sorbed in its contents as to be utterly unconscious of what was 


going on around him.” 


The secret of his readiness to put aside his own work 
was moral as well as mental in its attractiveness, and it lay 
even deeper beneath the surface than this idea of good-fellow- 
ship admits. It was pure unselfishness, constantly responsive 
to the many demands upon it for sympathy or entertainment. 
He gave so freely of that generous personal interest which 
every one craves, that his companions were surprised, and 
could not fathom the source from which it sprang. But it 
was only. another outward effect of the loveliness of his charac- 
ter, or that Christian grace that entered into every fibre of 
his being and shaped and colored his whole life. He was so 
thoroughly happy—he often said “he did not believe a 
happier boy existed than himself” —that he could not help 
conferring happiness on others. 

All the pursuits of college were a delight to him. The’ 


studies, the students’ meetings, the hazing and even being 


21 


hazed, were sources of pleasure, and yet by his own act he 
was restricted in many ways from the usual indulgence in 
these social frolics. 

Just before entering Harvard, he gave, voluntarily, the fol- 
lowing pledge to his mother, and it was kept with the utmost 


fidelity throughout those four happy years. 
PLEDGE. 


In view of the frightful evils of intemperance among young 
men, and with a devout prayer for Divine assistance, without 
which all resolutions are unavailing, [ hereby solemnly pledge 
myself to abstain from wine and all spirituous liquors, from 
playing billiards im public halls, and from all company which 
would lead me into those temptations, so long as I continue a 
member of Harvard College.— So help me, God! 

| M. Henry SIMPson. 

SAXONVILLE, September 8, 1867. 

The class of ’71 was an exceptional one in point of intel- 
lectual superiority and social standing, and it early prom- 
ised to leave a noble record in the history of the University. 
There must have been plenty of hard work for Harry during 
his Freshman year, but a classmate who sat beside him at | 
recitations says he never knew him to be unprepared. That 
he carried with him to Cambridge an earnest love of study 
was speedily recognized by both classmate and instructor. 

“Mr. Simpson’s example is worth a great deal to Har- 
vard. He is an earnest student, actuated by a deep love 


of knowledge. Many young men with wealthy parents come 


2 
- ' 


here for the sport of the thing, or because it is fashionable ; 
but he comes with the purest desires, and such an example 
should teach you all,” affirmed one of the Professors a little 
later. So even in that initial year his quiet influence was 
felt, and good fellowship vitalized into strong and lasting 
friendships with many of his companions. 

At the commencement of the Sophomore year Harry took 
a prominent part in his class by founding, together with the 
assistance of his friend, H. Deming, a society that might 
rival in talent and fame the long-established Institute. 
The new society began in a little quartette that used to meet 
in J. R. Walter’s room, for the interchange of ideas; and 
Harry at that time contributed, effectively, his share to the 
various discussions. There were several meetings, and then 
he waved aside the opportunity of entering the Institute 
with its prestige of half a century, and bent all his energies 
toward raising this new-born society on a literary basis that 
should bear the shock of opposition. 

It was not from any political ambition, or a dislike of the 
Institute, to which most of his friends belonged, that Harry 
ranged himself on the other side; but he felt there was 
room for still another society, if properly managed; and he 
wished those of his classmates who were unable to enter the 
Institute to share the pleasures so prized by an ambitious 
student. Thus it was the Everett Atheneum began, and 
as it appealed at once to the good-will and the good sense 


of Harvard men, it gained rapidly an intellectual position, 


23 


and soon ranked with the other society in popularity. But 
while using all his influence to help the establishment of 
the Atheneum, Harry became interested in another society 
of a different bias, —The Christian Brethren. This was a 
religious society with orthodox tenets, but of broad and in- 
dependent views. Stanch and true in his simple creed, he 
fell naturally into its congenial fellowship, and very soon 
began to take an active part in all the doctrinal discussions 
arising at their weekly meetings. Another phase of his 
character was brought into relief by this new step. 

It was remarkable that a young man of his social dis- 
position, and possessed of gifts sure to attract the world’s 
pleasures in no scant degree, could stop to be “ religious,” 
or could really enjoy the outward observances of Christian 
life. But it should not be forgotten that without a glim- 
mer of cant or intolerance, his religious views were ardent 
and sincere, and proved the mainspring of his every action 
independently of what the world might think or say. It 
seems a sacrilege to tear away the veil from an immortal 
soul, and discuss its strength and purity, and we shrink from 
such a task. It must be enough for us to recall the modest, 
unpretending expressions of a boyhood made beautiful by 
deep conscientiousness, and to seek no other proof of what 
he was than in what he seemed. 

With a mind so intelligent and so ready for argument, 
he could not escape being assailed by the popular doubts 
of the day as they appeared in literature and science. He 


24 


read broadly, deeply, and listened intelligently to the think- 
ers of this age; but, despite their brillant reasoning and in- 
sidious philosophy he remained steadfast in his faith, and 
the hope of centuries. 

Whenever he spoke at the meetings of the Christian Breth- 
ren, it was with thoughtful earnestness, and his remarks were 
received in the same spirit. Once at a society debate the 
question was raised, whether or no the love of money was 
the root of all evil. Several attempted to show that it was 
not, when Harry arose and said, he regarded the passage 
in question as being used figuratively, and, by the love of 
money, he understood, a desire for self-gratification and self- 
ishness. His simple analysis cleared up the perplexing 
phrase, and brought the discussion to a close. The impres- 
sion given of his earnest convictions at this period is clearly 
shown in these words of a sympathetic friend and class- 
mate : — 

My prEar Mrs. Simpson, —I wish, if I may be permitted, to — 
add to the published memorial of my friend Harry Simpson a 
few recollections of his religious character. 

Every remembrance of him is now doubly precious, and many 
hours of studying, walking, and visiting with him come to my 
mind. My first and deepest recollections of him, however, are in 
connection with his religious life. 

For the first two years of his college course I was in the class 
before him. In my Junior year illness compelled me to go back 
a class, and one thing that always reconciled me to the change 


was that by it I formed a close friendship with Harry, who was 


25 


before only a mere acquaintance. This acquaintance began in the 
Christian Brethren Society, the social religious organization of 
the College. Its simple Thursday evening prayer-meetings, in a 
plain, retired room in College House, were a great source of help 
to the Christian student. 

At these meetings, from the very first, Harry was to be regu- 
larly found in his place, and taking his part, be it in prayer, or 
singing, or practical suggestion, or in his turn as leader of the 
evening thought. I wish I had time to recall in detail the many 
Ulustrations that crowd upon me of the hearty way in which he 
took up all these duties. 

Specially glad were we when it fell to Simpson’s turn to preside 
at the meeting. To many of our members he represented a dif- 
ferent element of college life from their own. They were quiet, 
slow, unworldly. Harry was quick, sharp, worldly in the best 
sense, a gleam from that active scene from which their student- 
life quite shut them out. Some of the things “hard to be un- 
derstood” were grappled with in that old College-House room, 
and sometimes a member would stumble, even to falling, over 
some of the difficulties of Scripture. I remember well a time 
when there were serious doubts raised among many, I think, on 
the relation of science to religion. Harry had the leadership of 
the ensuing meeting; much care was necessary not to ignore the 
_ difficulties, yet to reassure the wavering and to hold fast by the 
faith. How manfully he (being at once an enthusiast in science, 
a straightforward reasoner, and a child in his religious faith) 
accomplished the result was witnessed by the satisfaction of all. 

I can notice but two other aspects of his religious character, 


which, from circumstances of a personal nature, are strongly im- 


26 


pressed upon my memory. One of these was the social element 
in his religion. Such an element in connection with one’s religion 
is always difficult, yet always important to realize, especially 
among young men, students, not united in a common church or- 
ganization. Our meetings had not accomplished their purpose 
when the merely formal exercises were over; interchange of greet- 
ings, hearty words of good-will, were even more helpful than these 
in making religion real in our lives. In these courtesies Harry 
was foremost, inquiring the names of new members, bringing his 
frank, hearty nature to quicken this and that one, whose only claim 
to his friendship was his Christian brotherhood. My first vivid 
recollection of him is connected with a social gathering of the 
members at the rooms of the President. We were then in differ- 
ent classes, but chanced to be near together for much of the even- 
ing, and there the rich fund of his conversation, his ease in 
society, were brought to add pleasure to the hour. If I had never 
gained a closer friendship with him than that to which this com- 
mon service entitled me, I should ever remember him as one whose 
Christianity found a place in every department of his life and 
. character. 

But I should convey a false impression if I let it be thought 
he was at all obtrusive in his religion. Singularly, almost to a 
fault, was he otherwise. At an election of officers in the society 
he was urged to accept the presidency. Twice, I think, was he 
unanimously elected, in spite of his most earnest protestations. 
I recall a long conversation I had with him to induce him to 
accept. In that he told me he did not feel his religious position 
was sufficiently advanced, that he was no fit standard-bearer for 


the religion of Harvard, that his time was so taken up with secu- 


27 


lar things as to bring discredit on his profession, that he had no 
claim to be elevated above many another his superior in experience. 
Such was the exalted estimate he put upon religion, such his dis- 
trust of himself. Yet no one more than he made secular things 
religious, no one better illustrated how the Christian could be in 
the world and not be soiled by it. As witness of this fact I 
should summon not myself, not his fellow-Christians, though they 
fully realized it, but his many friends who in their college days 
made no profession of a Christian life, but who looked on Harry 
Simpson with an oft-expressed admiration. If they found cant, 
hypocrisy, double-dealing elsewhere, they saw none of it in him. 
If many so-called Christians led them to despise the name, his 
consistency of life always led them to honor it. 

I have been tempted to write at length on this subject of Harry’s 
religious life. One recollection has suggested another, and I find 
them to be among my most prized memories. Whenever now I 
wish to portray to friends found since his death, a character strong 
and simple in Christian faith, yet earnest to acquire knowledge 
and keenly alive to earth’s enjoyments, I take as illustration my 
college friend, Harry Simpson. 

I thank you much for the privilege of offering these few words 
to his memory, and remain, 

Very truly yours, 
Harry Prerce NIcHo.s. 

ANDOVER THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 


The love of music amounted to a passion with Harry. He 
studied indefatigably and never complained of the necessary 


drudgery. His piano was not only a source of pleasure to 


28 


himself, but his friends enjoyed his desultory playing almost 
as much as they would have done a more finished perform- 
ance. After returning late at night from some concert or 
opera, he would sit down at the instrument and play over 
what he had heard. Now talking seriously of the science of 
the thing, then drifting into the sentiment of the moment, 
he would fall into some dreamy fantasy, apparently forgetting 
where he was or who was with him. 

A thorough appreciation of what was best im music led 
him to study it far more earnestly than a mere fondness could 
have encouraged him to do; and his opinions and letters on 
the subject manifest the pure musicianly taste quite as much 
as the fine critical feelmg of a young amateur. 

Perhaps if his mental equipoise had been less perfect, this 
rare gift might have occupied a far more prominent place in 
his plans for the future than it did. Butif he sought the 
highest forms of its expression, it was for art’s sake alone; 
and all the other interests weighing as heavily in the balance 
were never neglected because his taste was so strongly bent 
in that direction. 

But Harry possessed a many-sided character, and: those 
admitted to his friendship soon discovered that its moral 
traits were as rounded and as perfected as was the brain 
power or the warm sympathy which had attracted them in- 
stinctively and permanently. Hach one saw in him a different 
gift in harmony with his own tastes, and each one felt that 
gift might be cultivated with success, had he chosen to make 
it paramount to all the rest. 


Ze 


Rev. B. Northrup writes of Harry from still another stand- 
point when he says :— 


* From a child, his love of books took a definite form in his- 
torical reading. As he grew to manhood he planned out a course 
of historical study so liberal, so comprehensive, it would have 
required years for its completion. He was ereatly indebted to 
his father’s judicious influence for this noble taste. Discrimi- 
nating questions concerning favorite writers and the scenes and 
characters they depicted had early fostered the historic spirit. But 
his father, not content with the mere repetition of books, would 
discuss the justness of the author’s views or opinions, and thereby 
awakened in the boy a love for criticism and the power for logical 
analysis. It was admirable discipline, and Harry enjoyed the 


conversations as delightful recreations.” 


With this natural taste encouraged from the beginning, it 
was not singular that the desire to make the study of history 
a definite profession should have taken a strong hold upon 
him as soon as he was old enough to have a decided bias in 
any particular direction. In time it became an ambition. 
The peculiar facility with which he acquired knowledge, his 
untiring application, his wonderful power of mental concen- 
tration, his keen analytical perception, and above all the in-- 
tegrity of his purpose, were strong and eloquent reasons why 
he should have been drawn to this branch of literature as a 
profession. The history of the past and the present, with 
its wondrous quick and dead stones of great and little deeds, 


appeared to him the inspirational source of his future career. 


30 


But when the four college years were drawing to a close, and 
when class honors were only a hand-stretch from him, the 
whole course of that career was changed, and he abandoned 
literature, as a pursuit, for the active duties of a business 
life. 

It seems now, as it seemed then, as though this act of self- 
abnegation surrounded the boy’s character with somewhat 
of that old splendor which clings to the memory of cour- 
ageous men who have dared renounce their dearest wishes 
simply for the sake of another’s happiness. ‘The sacrifice was 
worthy of the man. It came generously from the heart and 
reason, and asked no recognition, save the consciousness of 
its being night. It was not so easy to set aside his boyish 
ambitions, but duty never pleaded with him in vain, and he 
felt that in this final choice he could fulfil the hopes of an 
indulgent and a loving father. Harry’s reverent admiration 
for the sagacity and the intellectual power of that father in- 
creased with his ability to comprehend his parent’s motives, 
and to grasp both sides of a question, involving not only the 
welfare of so many others, but his own individual success in 
life. Their intimate companionship had early awakened in the 
boy a tender pride and a perfect confidence in his father’s 
ultimate judgment and opinions that were very beautiful to 
contemplate in an age when independence of action seems 
to be the sole desire of young men. And now, when ready to 
become his own’ guide through a labyrinth of experiences, 


he proved his loyalty and filial affection by cheerfully adopting 


ol 


this new direction of his life. ven before leaving Harvard 
he began to take an active interest in manufactures, and 
would mingle a philanthropic spirit in their study that showed 
his intentions in an altogether different light from the ordi- 
nary pursuit of trade. It was his determination to forward 
the advancement, if possible, of less fortunate but merito- 
rious men, by striking out in new paths and assuming the 
responsibility of their welfare. The hundreds of souls to be 
committed to his charge should always have his personal care 
and attention. Mr. J. A. Lawrence, a classmate of Harry’s, 
relates a conversation he held with him on this subject at 


Dresden (1871); he says :— 


“We were telling each other what we had planned to do in 
life. I was to enter business,—a change from my original 
purpose, —and he said I ought not to look upon such an occu- 
pation as likely to confine my usefulness and influence within 
narrow bounds. He too expected to engage in business, but he 
did not feel in the slightest that he was throwing himself away ; 
he anticipated ample opportunity for conferring such benefits 
upon society as his education and training made possible, and 
he should endeavor to make the men who might come under 
his control more capable of understanding their relations to cap- 
ital, and their relations to each other; he would educate them 
to consider progress in all things the best aim of their lives, — 
progress in mental standards, progress in moral standards, and 
so on. I could not help noticing that while giving his reasons 


for feeling satisfied with his choice of a business career, there 


32 


were no lingering considerations of self. His sole motive ap- 
peared to be the hope of widening his influence for the sake of 


others.”’ 


The spring of 771 was filled with many social excitements 
naturally attending the close of college life. But amid all 
the arduous preparations for graduating, class gayeties, and 
the anticipations of that year in Europe promised him as 
a relaxation before the real labor of his life should begin, 
Harry found time and inclination to assume another respon- 
sibility. The first Sunday in May he made a public pro- 
fession of religion by joining Park Street Church. With 
all the conflicting influences then around him, this step was 
certainly a remarkable instance of moral courage; but the 
independence, the earnestness, of such an act was thoroughly 
in keeping with a character as strong and as pure as his. 
Nor could there have been a fairer or more distracting out- 
look than the one now stretching before him, — health, 
and wealth, and the unbounded enthusiasm of twenty 
years | | 

When Harvard and the noble class of *71 had fairly 
parted company, Harry began to eagerly push forward his 
plans for the year’s holiday, and that year seemed to’ concen- 
trate and mature the work and pleasure of a lifetime. Hvery 
day added a richer bloom to the ripening nature, every day 
perfected its generous resolves and drew it onward and up- 
ward from the mortal strife. We did not dream it then, 
but many, many years were to be crowded into those short 


33 


months, and the truth flows back in great waves of light, 
until we can see the wherefore of it in the present that is 
lived without him. 

Harry sailed in the “ Malta,’ for Liverpool, the Ist of 
August, and drank his first draught of freedom on the briny 
Atlantic. He writes home to his mother a bright, running 
description of his fellow-passengers, and their various sea- 
goig entertainments, and then chronicles his safe arrival in 
England on the 13th of that month. 


“Here I am, safe and sound. The smoky air says England. 
The dingy houses say England. The little boys dressed like 
undersized men say England. The men themselves, with their 
stand-up collars and remarkable hats, say England. So does 
the quict hotel, with its silent waiters, its decorous coffee-room, 


and its young women in charge of the office.” 


The route he had sketched out quietly at home was some- 
what changed by the advice of a “ Malta” acquaintance, 
and the Italian trip was postponed until he could have 
two or three months’ study i London, Paris, or Berlin. 
But after a week’s sight-seeing in London, Harry hurried 
over to Paris, and the 27th of August found him at Cha- 
mouni, fairly launched on his vacation-tramp, — the holiday 
before a winter’s work should set in. His letters were to 
be his only journal,— minute particulars of what he saw 
and what he did from day to day,—and they give the best 
idea of the fresh experiences that befell him in his Alpine 
trip. 


CHamounl, August 7, 1871. 


My par Fatuer, — Here I am at Chamouni, where we spent 
a day or two, four years ago; but Chamouni now is very different 
from Chamouni then. In the first place it is now August, and 
it was then May, and although to-day finds the mountains rather 
hidden by the clouds, still yesterday was the finest day that I 
ever spent among mountains. I improved it to the utmost, and 
got great good, I think, for both body and soul. In the first 
place the walk was a good stretch for my weak legs, for T left 
Chamouni at a little after seven in the morning, and didn’t re- 
turn till a few minutes before six at night. Of course I wasn’t 
on my feet all the time, and the return was down hill, but I had 
about eight hours of solid walking and climbing, which was 
quite enough to begin with. O, what a glorious thing is this 
fresh mountain air! I feel twice the man I was for it, already. 
But it was the view which I got yesterday which made the ex- 
cursion valuable for a lifetime. I think I shall never forget it. 
There was not a cloud in the sky, and every peak in the great 
range of Mont Blanc stood out clear and soft against the sky; 
the valley was a bright emerald, above it the sombre green of 
the fir-covered slopes, while still farther up the ruddy-brown 
needles and dazzling white of the snow-capped peaks shot up 
into the deep blue of the sky. 

From the valley one gets no idea of the grandeur, the tremen- 
dous massiveness, of these mountains; but from the top of the 
Brevent, which is about half the height of Mont Blanc, you are 
impressed and indeed almost overwhelmed by the immensity of 
the great mountain king. There is a stanza, written I don’t 


know by whom, which I used to see in some old reading-book 


oO~ 
Vo 


years ago, and which I came across this morning in Murray, 
which appeals with especial force to me now: — 
“Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; 
They crowned him long ago, 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 
With a diadem of snow.” 

I went up, yesterday, a mountain called the Flegére, and then 
by a path of some three miles over the mountains, walked to an 
upland pasture called Planprag, from which I ascended the Bre- 
vent, which, as I said, is about 8,000 feet high. The path all 
along is in full sight of Mont Blanc, being just on the other 
side of the valley, and by thus having the great mountain con- 
tinually before my eyes throughout the day I gained a famil- 
larity with it which, so far from breeding contempt, has begotten 
an admiration such as [I never, I think, felt before for any object 
in nature. I don’t wonder that the Swiss are a liomesick race 
when away from these grand scenes... .. 

With regard to this designing, I have been talking with several 
gentlemen much interested in the subject, and I find that it will 
be much better for me to study a few months in Paris before 
travelling much; and so after a few weeks of this grandly invig- 
orating mountain work to build me up a little, I am going to 
return to Paris as nearly as may be to October lst, and then 
for three and perhaps four months work with the best advan- 
tages that the place affords to get a thorough critical knowledge 
of design. I must close soon, but will first give you a diary 
of the week, of which I spent Monday and Tuesday at Paris, 
Tuesday night and part of Wednesday en route for Geneva, 


where I stayed till Friday morning, when I started for this 


36 


place. Saturday I have described at greater length, and Sunday 
was spent at church in the morning and by a walk in the after- 
noon. You must write me occasionally, father dear, and tell me 
about the business and the state of the country, as well as home 
matters. 

Give my love to all, keeping the great store which you have 


always had from your son 
Harry. 


ZERMATT, September 3, 1871. 

Dear Grace, —I wish that you could see your brother attired 
for an Alpine tramp. My Adirondack costume resembled my 
present one a little, but was a little wilder. What with my heavy 
boots studded with nails, my face tanned and burnt in the sun, 
with a ten-days’ beard on, a handkerchief pinned on my hat and 
flapping gracefully down behind, a pair of blue spectacles on to 
protect my eyes from the reflection of the sun on the surf, a rough 
suit of thick grayish-brown clothes, the pants turned up pretty far, 
and a dark-blue woollen shirt probably open and without cravat, 
with my alpenstock in my hand and my flask slung over my 
shoulder, you would have some difficulty in recognizing an A. B. 
of respectable family before you. But my tour in Switzerland so 
far has been perfectly delightful, and I am beginning to feel really 
acquainted with these magnificent mountains and glaciers. I have 
told father, in my letter to him, of my first day at Chamouni, and 
the glorious view of Mont Blanc that I had. Well, on Sunday 
afternoon I took a short walk down to the Glacier des Boissons 
(the glacier, don’t you know, that our guide said was plus propre 
than the Mer de Glace) and found that— thanks to my fencing, 


which has taught me to keep a firm footing under any circum- 


o7 


stances — I could walk pretty well on the ice. On Monday I went 
up to Chapeau (where we went, you recollect, four years ago), and 
from there crossed the Mer de Glace to the Montauvert. The only 
part of this little excursion that is at all exciting is the Mauvais 
Pas, which is really quite a precipice, and along which you walk 
by means of steps cut in the rock; but there is a railing all the 
way along to take hold of, so that you have no feeling at all of 
being on a precipice. The next morning I started at six for the 
Jardin, of which you have heard so much. We walked up the Mer 
de Glace as far as the junction of the three glaciers which unite 
to form it, stopping occasionally to peep down into some of the 
great crevasses which gape here and there, showing their hungry 
gullets of fifty feet and more in depth, and the moulins, or big holes, 
down which in the afternoon great streams of water, from the melt- 
ing of the glacier on the top, pour with all sorts of horrible roar- 
ings and gurglings. About the time when we reached the head 
of the Mer de Glace, the sun, which had already lit the tips of the 
mountains, so far condescended as to show his face to us, though 
the lower mortals at Chamouni had to wait still another hour, I 
fancy, for his appearance. We now had to climb a moraine of the 
Glacier du Taléfre, a stiff bit of very steep up-hill walking. 

A moraine is simply an enormous dirt-heap filled with stones 
of all sizes, like the plums in a pudding; and the loose dirt, giving 
no foothold, makes the walking doubly hard, at the same time that 
it is insufferably stupid. However, we got to the top in time, and 
then, crossing the glacier, found ourselves at the far-famed Jardin. 
This is simply an upland pasture in which the wild-flowers of 
Switzerland grow in great numbers. We saw one or two butter- 


flies here, and one bird. It makes a very striking picture, for it 


38 


is entirely surrounded by snow, and fortified on every side by the 
bare Aiguilles of this tremendous chain. It owes its existence to 
the fact that just above it on the mountain-slope a great ledge 
of rocks juts out and divides the glacier to the right and left, thus 
leaving a triangular space in the centre, which the glacier has still 
further fortified by depositing moraines along its sides, while, being 
| upon the slope a little way up, it is above the level of the great 
Glacier du Taléfre, which fills the valley below it as it slowly flows 
past and forms the third side of the triangle. Being thus free 
from snow and ice, on a southern slope, and well watered by the 
melting ice above it in the summer days, vegetation has had a 
capital chance to flourish here in a small way, and the little green 
oasis is certainly a delightful spot in a landscape of rock and snow. 
The view of the Aiguilles here is exceedingly fine, for you are 
entirely surrounded by them. Up from the ice pavement of- the 
glacier on every side rise these walls of rock with lofty turrets 
and battlements, until you might fancy that you had penetrated 
to the very stronghold of the Frost-King himself. 

After eating my dinner I strolled along with my guide from 
the rest of the party, for there were several others who came up 
at the same time, and, lying down on a rock, I was soon asleep. 
I awoke in about an hour, and found myself alone with my 
alpenstock. JI knew that my guide had gone down to see the 
rest of the party, but I resolved to teach him a lesson, and so I 
clambered up alone to the very top of the Jardin among the rocks, 
about a quarter of a mile off. I hadn’t reached the top before I 
heard him crying out, but I let him cry till I had thoroughly en- 
joyed the sight of this savage landscape alone, and then, stepping 


out to the edge of the high rock, I returned his jodel. The poor 


39 


fellow had been fearfully scared, for he fancied that I had wan- 
dered out on the glacier and was lost in a crevasse, and I think it 
will be some time before he leaves anybody else without their 
knowledge. We arrived at Montauvert by three o’clock, and I 
slept there again that night. The next morning we started at four 
o’clock (I was waked at three, — think of it, Harry Simpson up at 
three!) for the Col du Géant. For this expedition I had to take 
two guides, and the last half of the way we were tied together 
with a rope. I have not left myself time to describe our ascent, . 
and the magnificent crevasses and ice architecture that we saw, nor 
how fatiguing it was, nor the glorious view from the summit, 
eleven thousand feet high, nor yet how I beat a couple of Eng- 
lishmen, old climbers, both up and down, by a half-hour each way, 
nor how I used myself up in doing it. The whole thing was a 
fourteen-hour walk, which is no joke for a novice. I got down 
all right, however, though pretty tired, and with feet in rather a 
bad condition. So the next day, instead of walking to Martigny 
over the Téte Noire, as I had proposed, I took a mule. We went 
by a new route which is far finer than the Téte Noire both im near 
and distant scenery, and which brought me out at Vernayaz just 
opposite the opening of the Gorge du Trient. Friday morning I 
explored this, also the Pissevache Waterfall (which we saw from the 
railway going from Lion to Villeneuve, you remember), and in the 
afternoon started up the valley of the Rhone for Visp. The rail- 
road has been pushed a little above Lion now to Lierre, but there 
I had to take the diligence to Visp, which I reached at ten P. M. 
At five the next morning I was up again, and at six on my way 
up the valley on horseback. I rode for about four hours to San 


Niklaus, and from there took a carriage to Zermatt, which I 


40 


reached in the middle of the afternoon. Iam going to do a little 
walking about here, and then cut across the Bernese Oberland 
(which you know we did not see) to Lucerne, where my letters are 
all awaiting me. I am in a very great hurry to get there, for I 
have only had one letter from home since my arrival, having been 
disappointed by receiving none at Geneva. I shall be at Lucerne, 
I suppose, in just about a fortnight, and then I shall revel in 
home news..... 

My love to all who take an interest in your loving though dis- 


tant brother 
Harry. 


LEUKERBAD, September 10. 

My pear Moruer,—TI am looking forward very eagerly, I 
assure you, to next Friday evening, when I shall be at Lucerne 
devouring my home letters with an appetite never before felt. 
For you know it is six weeks and more since I have heard of 
home, except through that little note of yours, written two or 
three days after my departure. I hardly know what to ask about 
as to home matters, for I don’t know what questions are already 
answered. I hope that Gracie is very much better than when I 
left. I wrote her last Sunday, but dwelt at such length on my 
own adventures as to leave neither time nor room for inquiries. 
I suppose I shall either meet or hear from Mr. Sanderson at 
Lucerne. At present I am not even sure whether he has come 
or not. 

Mother, such a glorious time as I am having in Switzerland, 
and such a prodigious muscle as I am developing! It’s lucky my 
whole trip is not to be a Swiss tour, or there would be no con- 


trolling me when I returned.. Yesterday morning I began my 


Z 41 


day’s journey by a walk of twelve or fifteen miles, which I did 
in three hours and a half, carrying my knapsack on my back. 
It’s jolly to be so independent, carrying all your luggage along 
with you; but alas! the legitimate results of rapid travelling, with 
only a knapsack full of clothes, are dirt unutterable. As my 
clothes can’t be washed very often, I have to make it up by wash- 
ing myself the more, and I believe that more than half the time 
which I don’t spend in the open air I spend at the washbowl. 
But O, mother, how has vanity departed! Even a mother would 
find it difficult to be proud of such a face as your son’s, for it is 
red and half peeled, and as I can’t touch a razor to it there is 
upon it a two weeks’ beard ; and then, my nose—ye Gods! my 
nose, half again larger than its natural size (which is n’t too small), 
a shapeless mass of red flesh, and corrugated for all the world like 
a small potato blushing to find itself so thrust upon public notice. 
I have seen only one worse nose in Switzerland, and that is say- 
ing a great deal. This last week has been a pretty busy one 
with me. On Monday I began walking again, having rested 
since Wednesday, when my long tramp to the Col du Géant 
rather used my feet up. Monday I went (from Zermatt, where 
last Sunday’s letter was written) up to the Homli, a peak just 
at the foot of the Matterhorn, and in fact merely a continuation 
of one ridge or aréte of that famous peak. From no point is 
the Matterhorn more imposing, for its tremendous precipices lift 
themselves into the air within a quarter of a mile of you, and as 
you look up at the gigantic obelisk, for such it almost seems, 
rising nearly straight up toward heaven, no rival peak near by 
to lessen the effect of its massiveness by comparison, you are 


almost overwhelmed by it, and as you look it seems as if it would 


42 


topple over and crush you. It is so devoid of color, too, —a mere 
gray rock with white patches of snow, — that its dreary monotone 
produces somewhat the same chilling effect as the cold, passion- 
less glare of a serpent’s eye. So at least it seemed to me from 
the Homli; but a day or two after, seen in the glow which pre- 
cedes sunrise, the terrible Matterhorn seemed almost beautiful, 
its cliffs warmed into a ruddy hue and its snow patches tinged 
with a lovely pink by the warm light which the world was waiting 
for. But it was only a passing mood, and as the sun rose higher, 
the old mountain relapsed into his cold, stern, forbidding aspect 
once more, as if even the moment’s good-humor were uncongenial 
to him. 

Tuesday I went up the Mettelhorn, from which I think there 
is the finest view accessible to ordinary climbers near Zermatt, 
except, perhaps, that from the Crima di Jazzi, which I did not 
see. The Matterhorn, and to the left of it, Monte Rosa, with 
all its attendant snow-peaks, then the line of the Mischabel, and 
looking down the valley of Zermatt, in the distance the moun- 
tains of the Bernese Oberland, while between these and the Mat- 
terhorn, completing the wonderful panorama, is the Weisshorn, 
the most inaccessible of the Alps, and another chain of snow- 
capped summits and glaciers. The summit from which you see 
this view is just large enough for three or four persons to sit 
down upon, and on two sides of it are precipices perhaps a thou- 
sand feet high, while the other two are steep ascents. The effect 
is wonderful. You seem suspended in mid-air, and the view is 
more like one from a balloon than from any point of mother 
earth. Wednesday I went up to the Riffel Hotel, on a mountain 
just facing the Matterhorn, and walked up to the Gorner Grat, 


43 


from which one has the finest view of Monte Rosa which can be 
got from the north. Except, for this, however, I did not like 
the view so well as either that from the Hémli or that from the 
Matterhorn. Thursday I made my highest point, ascending the 
Hochste Spitze of Monte Rosa, 15,200 feet above the level of 
the sea. It was a very fatiguing climb, and took, including 
rests, about seventeen hours, of which nine and a half were 
occupied in the ascent, and one hour on the top. Unfortu- 
nately we were enveloped in clouds almost all the time that we 
were on the summit, and I[ got no view on the Italian side, and 
but glimpses to the north and west. But the effect even of 
these glimpses from such a height was wonderful; all lesser ele- 
vations were lost entirely, the glaciers seemed perfectly flat, and 
only the greater mountains retained the effect of height. The 
Matterhorn seemed quite insignificant. Instead of towering into 
heaven, alone in his great elevation, we could see the distant 
ranges over his head, and as the southern arée is in sight from 
here, he had lost his striking shape, and was simply a rough- 
looking pyramid, like so many of his brothers. The next day 
I walked down to Zermatt, and took a carriage to San ‘Niklaus, 
half-way down the valley, where I spent the night. The only 
effects of the Monte Rosa expedition were, that I felt rather 
tired, and had a headache from the exposure to the sun. I did 
not feel the least inconvenience from the rarity of the air. 
Saturday morning I started for Visp for the first time, with 
my knapsack on my back. I reached here in three hours and 
a half, as I told you, then took the diligence to Sursten, and 
after a delay of three hours there, which made me lose this 


lovely valley of Leuk, I rode up here, arriving at nine. It is 


44 


a curious place. People stay in the baths eight hours of the 
day, and in bed the rest of the time. They have floating tables 
in the water, with their lunch, books, papers, chess-boards, and 
there they spend their time. Thank Heaven that I am only a 
spectator ! | 
From here I go over the Gemmi Pass to Lauterbrunnen and 
Grindelwald, and then to Lucerne. Love to all, with a great 


deal for yourself from your son “Harry. 


LucErne, September 17, 1871. 


My pear Moruer,—.... But perhaps you would like to 


know what I have been doing since my last letter from Leuker- . 


bad. I have not been idle by any means. Early Monday morn- 
ing I started off alone, my knapsack on my back, to cross the 
Gemmi, one of the most striking passes in Switzerland. The 
road, or, rather, mule path, is carried up the face of a precipice 
for fifteen hundred or two thousand feet, taking advantage of 
the shoulder of a ravine which a stream has worn in the rock, 
in constructing the zigzags, and thus for the first two or three 
hours the effect is very imposing. The rest of the pass is by no 
means so fine, however, an exceedingly dismal mountain-lake 
at the summit being the most marked feature, with the excep- 
_ tion of a lovely view at the other end of the high level of the 
Gasteren Thal, a miniature Yo Semite, with the precipices, the 
domes, and the beautiful coloring that report gives its Califor- 
nian counterpart. This valley, as I saw it, from the Gemmi, 
looking down into it, and the next morning, from the floor of 


the valley itself, strikes me as one of the most beautiful in Switzer- 





lined 





45 


land, though I have never heard much, or, indeed, anything, said 
about it. 

The Gemmi gave me five hours of sharp walking to Kander- 
stag. The rest of the day was rest for me. I read a play of 
Erckmann Chatrian’s, and made friends with some large St. Ber- 
nard dogs which I should like to have transported to Saxonville. 
The next morning I started on a more extended tramp over a 
longer pass, the Tschingel Glacier, to Lauterbrunnen. Our way 
lay up through the lovely Gasteren Thal, which we both entered 
and left by gorges which would be thought wonderfully fine 
anywhere but in Switzerland, and then by another valley to the 
ice-falls of the glacier. A stiff climb of an hour and a half up 
the moraine and steep mountain-side overcame the two thousand 
_feet of the ice-fall. We now went upon the glacier and up a 
. gradual ascent of several miles to the summit of the pass, seeing 
several avalanches from the Blumlis Alp on our left as we passed. 
From the Col, or summit of the pass, there is a very fine view of 
_ the chain of the Jungfrau, which was fortunately clear of clouds. 
From here we descended partly on the glacier, partly on the 
moraine and cliffs. It was a long day, twelve hours and a half, 
with only one hour’s rest. I carried the haversack of provisions 
to-day for the first time. It is astonishing what a difference 
eight or ten pounds makes in going up hill. This day brought 
me to the Lauterbrunnen. The next morning I had to go down 
to Interlaken to draw some money, and, coming as I did from 
the solitude and rough costumes of the High Alps in my half- 
savage guise to this full and fashionable watering-place, I was 
very much impressed with the fashion and elegance around me. 


I saw, in a register of foreigners at the banker’s here, the names 


46 


of the Northrops and the Putnams. I called upon them, but 
they had gone a day or two before. My forced visit to Inter- 
laken, however, was a little unlucky, for instead of starting over 
the Wengern Alp at half past five or six, as I should have liked, 
I had to start at quarter past eleven, in the heat of the day. Up 
I went, though, with my knapsack, and [ think that it was the 
hardest three hours’ work I ever did, which brought me to the 
hotel opposite the Jungfrau. The view from this spot is unique. 
On the other side of a ravine, and about a mile distant, rises the 
magnificent mountain wall, of which the Jungfrau forms the 
highest peak. Nowhere that I have been, not even in looking 
at Mont Blanc from the Brevent, do you get such an over- 
powering feeling of the tremendous mass of a great mountain. 
For here it is before you, a gigantic wall only broken into a 
slope at the top, and near enough for you to measure uncon- 
‘ sciously, by the standard of things about you, its immensity. We 
saw a number of avalanches, and at last one which was really 
imposing, with a roar like thunder and a rush of snow that com- 
pletely filled the ravine down which it fell and overflowed upon — 
the mountain-side in a cloud of white dust. I stopped here a 
little more than an hour to enjoy the view and get my lunch, 
and then went down on the Grindelwald side, doing the whole. 
thing in five hours’ walking. Hearing a great deal about the 
view from the Faulhorn, I determined, instead of going directly 
from Grindelwald to Meissengen by the great Scheideck, to take 
the Faulhorn on the way. This made a walk of over ten hours 
for Thursday ; but, though owing to a badly chafed leg, every step 
for the last four hours was painful, I was amply repaid by the 


magnificent view from the Faulhorn, which certainly is the best 











AT 


point on the north from which to see the high mountains of the 
Bernese Oberland. On Friday I took the diligence from Meis- 
sengen to Lucerne, having walked every step of the way from 
Leukerbad to Meissengen, and having done four passes and a 
mountain in four days. 

The road over the Brunig and by Larnen seemed quite familiar 
in many places, but, O, how slowly the hours rolled by till I 
came to Lucerne and got at my letters! I am now quite a dandy, 
for I have shaved my three weeks’ beard, put on respectable boots, 
a white shirt, a black coat, and a clean hat. My nose is much 
improved and has recovered its usual shape, but persists in a 
fiery color, which threatens to become chronic. Saturday I rested 
here, doing a little shopping. 

Monday I am going up Rigi, and I hope to be more successful 
than we were before. Tuesday I go to Andermatt by the St. 
Gothard, Wednesday by the Ober Alp to Reichenau, Thurs- 
day to Ragatz, Friday to Schongau in the Tyrol, and Saturday 
morning will probably see me in Ober-Ammergau, seeking where 
to lay my head for the next two nights. The following week 
by Munich and Frankfort directly to the Rhine, and after a couple 
of days or so amid its castles and hills, I shall spend Sunday 
with Deming in Bonn, and then back to Paris, where I shall 
settle for three months, unless there is cholera or a revolution to 
prevent. Such are my plans as far as I have any at present. 
Give my love to everybody, and mind that mother is not slighted 


in the distribution, says her loving son | 
TARRY. 


48 


Paris, October 8, 1871. 

Dear Motuer,—TI have lost a Sunday, and what is worse, I 
have let a whole week since go by without writing you, and before 
I tell you anything else, let me tell you what has prevented me, 
that you may not think your son entirely forgetful of the home 
in America, which is just as truly the centre of my happiness 
while I wander about here three thousand miles away from it, as 
it was in the days when my farthest travels and most adventurous ' 
voyages brought up at Barney’s upper meadow or the grist-mill. 
The circle is a little bigger now, that is all; the centre is un- 
changed. 

The trouble was, in the first place, that I spent Sunday with 
Deming at Bonn, and we had so much to say to each other that 
I really could not get a moment to myself. Monday I came to 
Paris, and Tuesday morning whom should I meet but my class- 
mate, Cabot Lodge? That completed the misadventure. It has 
been nothing but dinners with each other ever since, and this, in 
addition to all the trouble natural to going to housekeeping in a 
modest way, has taken absolutely every moment of my time. ButI 
am going to make up for it by writing you a nice long letter to-day. 

First and foremost, then, to take up the story where I left it off 
in my last, comes the Ammergau Passion-play. I reached. Am- 
mergau about four or half past on Saturday afternoon, having 
made no arrangements for bed or ticket. 

The village is very prettily situated in a valley whose mountain- 
sides rise abruptly on either side, one peak in particular being 
very bold, something like Eagle Cliff in the Franconia Notch, 
but more isolated. It holds (ordinarily), I should imagine, from 


six to eight hundred inhabitants. The houses are of stone, stuc- 





49, 


coed and frescoed as in the northern part of Italy (except that 
the frescos are, far oftener than there, of devotional subjects), but 
the roofs are in the Swiss chalet style. My first care was to find 
a sleeping-place, of course, and after some difficulty and many 
references to my “ Murray’s Manual of Conversation,” I got my 
driver to understand that I wanted him to do this little piece of 
business for me. After about half an hour’s trudging about I 
found a place which seemed tolerably clean, where I could have a 
bed in the same room with three other travellers, to be sure, but 
then that was a small consideration, and I took it. My ticket was 
the next care. All the “swell’’ places were gone, and I had to 
take one of the open-air seats among the peasants, — a great deal 
better than the costlier seats on many accounts, as I afterwards 
found out. Being now easy as to both bodily and spiritual re- 
freshment, I thought that I would have a look at the town and 
people, and naturally enough my steps turned toward the theatre. . 

To say that the town was full of people and carriages is to put 
it mildly, —it was jammed; and the curiously heterogeneous mix- 
ture of nations and characters made the crowd a very interesting 
one to study. Englishmen, with their hats tied up in white-hand- 
kerchief veils; Tyrolese peasants and huntsmen, the former in 
black roundabouts with double rows of silver buttons made from 
florins, the latter with gray suits jauntily trimmed with green, both 
wearing the hat and feather of which I give you a very unpictur- 
esque sketch here; Bavarian soldiers with their queer caps and 
dark uniform; sober German paterfamilias; Americans staring 
to find themselves in such company; couriers enraged at being’ 
brought so far out of their natural course, and away from their 
wonted and highly esteemed luxuries; drivers swearing at each 

4 


50: 


other —or, out of respect to the play, we will say only talking. 
very loud — because a lane that could only by courtesy be called 
big enough for one carriage would not hold two. Such was the 
crowd through which I threaded my way —the intricate mass of 
carriages really made quite a respectable labyrinth — toward the 
theatre. 

I give you below a rough ground-plan of the theatre, which, 
with the little picture enclosed, will give you a better idea of 
what the play is. The shaded parts of the plan show what is un- 
der cover; the rest of the theatre is open to the sky. The stage, 
as you see, occupies all one end of the theatre. The front part of 
it, or proscenium, I have marked 5. On either side two side 
scenes represent a colonnade in perspective, the broken black 
lines just back of the proscenium scenes representing houses, and | 
the openings in this line show streets extending almost to the back 
of the stage. I have marked these 1—1, and indicated by lines 
the side scenes which give them the effect of streets. The houses 
marked 3 and 4 have doors and balconies, and are supposed to 
belong respectively to Pilate and Annas the high-priest. Between 
these houses falls a curtain painted to represent a view of Jerusalem. 
At times this curtain rises, disclosing the central stage, which is 
covered. The play is divided into eighteen acts, each act being 
the portrayal of some passage in the last part of our Saviour’s life. 
These acts, however, are divided into three parts; for before the 
scenes from our Saviour’s life there are tableaux vivants of such Old . 
Testament scenes as are typical of the part of gospel history about to 
be represented ; and these tableaux are preceded and accompanied 
by a solemn song of the chorus, in which the relation of the tableaux 


to the action of the play, of the types to their fulfilment, is told 








51 


very poetically. The music, composed by the village schoolmaster 
sixty or seventy years ago, is very noble, though not very striking, 
and forms a worthy accompaniment to the piece. The chorus is 
quite like the chorus of the old Greek tragedies, and this division 
of the play into singing, tableaux, and the great drama itself pre- 
vents your feeling the strain of so long a representation. 

_ At six o’clock on Sunday morning I took my place among the 
crowd at one of the entrances to the theatre, for [ had no reserved 
seat, and it was first come first served. I had a couple of rolls 
and four apples in my pockets to serve me for a dinner, as I did 
not dare to leave my seat and my shawl, which was to serve by 
turns as cushion and water-proof. Being so early, there were only 
two or three hundred people before me, and so, after standing till 
seven, when the doors were opened, I got a capital place. As you 
see in the little picture, the mountains were in sight beyond the 
stage, and they helped very much to remove the play beyond the 
range of ordinary theatricals, and to make it seem, as it is, a thing 
by itself. I kept thinking of the old Greek and Roman theatre, 
where the people, with the blue Mediterranean beyond their stage, 
would sometimes be summoned from their play to arms, as a hos- 
tile fleet of galleys rowed in sight. I didn’t feel all day as if I 
could be in the nineteenth century, and awake, my surroundings 
seemed so fully to belong to the past. 

At last, as eight o’clock struck, the orchestra began, and the 
chorus filed out from either side upon the proscenium, headed by 
their leader (of whom I send a photograph), and forming a line 
which reached almost across the stage. They were dressed in 
bright-colored tunics, and each had, besides, a loose floating gar- 


ment which fell in graceful folds behind him. They accompanied 


52 


their song with gestures. After the opening song they fell back 
to right and left in two lines, which reached out from either side of 
the central stage. The curtain now rises and discloses the scene 
of Adam and Eve being driven from Paradise. After this the 
chorus takes up its song, telling of the deliverance in store; 
another tableau follows, and the chorus then file off the stage to 
either side, and the first act begins. The curtain of the central 
stage rises, showing a street in Jerusalem. The multitude begin 
to pour in with palm branches in their hands, singing hozannas. 
Finally, Christ appears, mounted on an ass and followed by his 
disciples. At the first sight of this representation of our Saviour 
I felt a slight shock, the only one which I experienced during the 
day. His features were rather harsh, and his brow a little too 
low, but his bearing singularly noble and dignified. The crowd 
passed from the central stage to one of the side streets, and then 
came out on the proscenium. From the other side the priests and 
Pharisees came out and began to dispute with Jesus. The dia- 
logue follows the Scripture very closely, and Christ’s manner in 
speaking was simple but majestic in its thorough and perfect dig- 
nity. The curtain of the central stage now rose again (it had been 
lowered just after the beginning of the scene), and you saw the 
temple with the merchants and money-changers buying and selling 
therein. In the whole of the scene that followed, and especially 
in the driving out of the money-changers with the scourge, the 
bearing of Christ became almost awe-inspiring. His action was 
that of a king who, with nothing but the force of his single great 
will, drives the multitude before him like dust before the wind, 
though he has no longer a servant or ally to help him. This was 


the key-note of his conception and acting throughout. 





53 


I will not describe the play further, for I have written enough 
to give you an idea of what it is. The most remarkable thing in 


it is the perfect earnestness and reverence with which the actors | 


from first to last take their parts, the accuracy with which they 


understand and conceive them, the wonderful taste and sense of 
the beautiful shown in posing the figures and arranging the dra- 
peries, and the resemblance of faces to the types of the old masters. 

The part of Judas was wonderfully delineated, as was also 
that of Caiaphas. I meant to have told you how thoroughly the 
peasants around me entered into the play, how they laughed 
when the high-priests were rebuked, and cried when the terrible 
parts came, and of the alternatives of sun and rain, and of 
many more of my thoughts and impressions than I am able to 
jot down in this stupid attempt to describe a wonderful sight. 
But I must condense it all in saying that I went away with a 
fresher sense of the reality of Christ’s life than I ever had. 

I fear that my long letter is rather stupid, for I feel what a 
sad jumble I have made of my description. 

Of my journeyings to Munich, Ulm, Mayence, and the 
Rhine, of my stay with Deming at Bonn, of my visit to Cologne, 
and journey here to Paris, of my confabs and. sight-seeing with 
Cabot Lodge, and of my struggles to get this room, I have left 
no time to tell. My next will have an account of my new quar- 
ters and my new life. 


I have received your letters up to September 18. Thank 


Bessie for the monogram, and Grace and Frank for their letters. 


I shall begin to answer them soon. 


Ever your loving son 
Harry. 


54 


By the 1st of October Harry had returned: to Paris, set 
up his bachelor’s establishment in the Quartier Latin, and 
amid sight-seeing and visiting, had gone resolutely to work 
in the School of Design. It was his determination to be- 
come a thorough draughtsman, and to be practically capable 
of overseeing the designs required for the factories in which 
his father was interested. It was not only the mechanical 
knowledge necessary to perfect him in the science of Ameri- 
can manufactures that he meant to master, but the artistic 
details, and he threw himself heart and soul into the under- 
taking. In one of his first Paris letters he writes his 


sister : — 


“You may be interested to know about my art studies. I 
‘go every morning to the school and draw from half past eight 
‘till eleven. I am doing heads from lithographs, being now at 
work on my fifth. And I am getting to outline much faster 
and better than when I entered the school, three weeks ago. 
Besides the instruction of the Professor, all the pupils are con- 
stantly looking over each other’s drawings, correcting, suggesting, 
criticising, so it is no wonder that one progresses very rapidly. 
As soon as my eye becomes a little better trained I’m going 
to draw from casts, and then finally, during the last month of 
my stay here, I may devote myself entirely to the study, practi- 
cal and theoretical, of ornament. But of course the first thing 
is to train my eye, and for that my present course is the best. 
You would enjoy — supposing you were a boy like’ me, and 
could go there — these schools, and their method of instruction, 


for it enables one to draw anything off-hand with a good deal 








55 


of accuracy. .... I have been so busy this week I have n’t 
a moment for letter-writing, and indeed I had more time 
when: I was travelling than now I am quietly settled down in 


Paris,” 
Paris, October 15, 1871. 


| Dear Faruer,— Though I have not yet heard from you in 
answer to my first letter, still, as you will probably be most in- 
terested in knowing of my work here, I will write this letter to 
you, though my letters are such common property I don’t know 
as it makes much difference whether your name or mother’s 
figures on the envelope. But before saying a word about my- 
self, the terrible calamity which has fallen upon Chicago forces 
itself upon me and demands some expression for the profound 
pity and sorrow which such a disaster must cause every American 
to feel. I cannot, though in the midst of a half-burnt city my- 
self, realize the incredible extent of the conflagration. As yet 
we have not heard the particulars, and I am at a loss to under- 
stand how the flames could have got such terrible headway as 
to be past checking by any means. The suffering must be fright- 
ful even now among so many thousands of houseless wretches, 
with winter almost upon them. In the sharp, keen competition 
between the Western cities, had any other than Chicago received 
such a blow, I should have doubted the possibility of recovery, but 
the advantage of her position and the almost supernatural energy 
of her citizens will enable Chicago, I suppose, to regain in time 
her old prosperity, but it will be a hard struggle. Meanwhile, 
what generous contributions are pouring in from all sides! I 
think that it is a glorious feature of our century, this large and 


open-handed generosity, which knows no limits such as_ those 





56 


of country, neighborhood, religion, which bounded the alms- 
giving of former generations. If our charity is broader, more 
comprehensive, and on a grander scale than formerly, there is 
certainly one direction in which we are moving upwards and not 
downwards. The loss of property is something positively with- 
out parallel. The number of failures which must result, I should 
think, would be immense, and how such an amount of property 
ean be absolutely destroyed withow’ almost a general panic, I 
can scarcely understand. Every business man must be affected 
both directly in his dealings with Chicago and indirectly in the 
general derangement of business. 

But to leave so sad a subject and come from this terrible 
tragedy to the light comedy of my daily life, I am established 
here in Paris, settled down at the regular work of my year. I 
have a little suite of three rooms, all of them small, low-studded, 
but very cosey, in the entresol of a house over in the Quartier 
Latin, which is across the river from the fashionable side where 
we were. I am thus completely out of the world of travellers, 
and find myself in a little knot of students in different branches 
of art, who form a little world of their own. It is quite a curious 
little world, however. Its society is mostly confined to the daily 
meetings at the café, for we are almost all working-men,.and have 
no time to lounge in each other’s rooms. Here is the great 
contrast to college life, though there is here that part of the 
advantage of a college life which one reaps from daily contact 
with minds running under varied circumstances along parallel 
grooves, This contact is a continual spur, a continual fine polish, 
and a very keen pleasure at the same time. Mr. Sanderson is at 


present in Switzerland, where I wrote him to stay as long as the 





57 

weather allowed him to enjoy it. He will be with me, I suppose, 
in the course of a week or two. So much for my surroundings, 
social and material, though I must add some mention of the kind- 
ness which John Munroe and his family have shown to me. For 
my work, I have entered one of the government schools of draw- 
ing, to begin with. I am working at present on heads, as the 
lines of the face are the most subtle and difficult to catch of any in 
existence, requiring the keenest and most delicate eye to perceive 
them perfectly. After having educated my eye for some time in 
this way, I shall go to work directly on ornament, seeking to 
learn, as well as may be, the general principles which underlie 
all pleasing effects of form. To get some true knowledge of 
color and its combinations, I am going to enter the studio of 
some painter of reputation who has paid attention to color as 
used in decoration, and in connection with such instruction as 
he may give me, I intend to read some of the standard works 
on this subject. 

Apropos to this, father, there is a plan which I have thought 
of as being likely to very greatly increase the resources of our 
designers, and as this department of the manufacture under. our 
present laws is growing in importance, I should like to lay my 
plan before you, and if you approve I shall be very glad to exe- 
cute it as I think I shall be well able to do. It is to make up a 
small library of the very best works of design, especially in its 
application to carpets and tapestries, and have it for the use of 
our designers. There are works magnificently published, with 
fine plates and lithographs, giving examples of the very best speci- 
mens of the different periods and schools. The study of these 


would be, I am convinced, for our designers, and so for our 


8 


business, a greater advantage than we could give them by the 
same amount of money spent in any other way. I could, by 
conference with the numerous artists and designers about here, 
and by a little study in the various libraries having reference to 
the subject, easily find out what works were the best, and buy 
them if they were to be had. I think that from two to five 
hundred dollars might be very profitably spent in this way. I 
shall await your answer in regard to this. 

I have left but little room to tell of what else I am ae 
of my French lessons, my riding, my fencing, and my piano, I 
am very busy, but it is all congenial work, and so J am none 


the less truly resting. . Your loving son . 
Harry. 


P. 8. I write so much about myself that I never leave room 
to ask the questions about- home and express the love which I 
feel for its dear inmates. Don’t set this down, I beg, as any 


lack of affection or thought on the part of the wanderer, 


Paris, October 21, 1871. 
Dear Mrs. Waterston, —I fear that you’ve given me up as 
a careless vagrant whose remembrance of kindness and whose 


friendship were too weak to struggle even into words, and my long 


silence would seem to justify so severe a judgment; but if my 


pen has been tardy, my mind has often gone back to America, and 
in recalling the favorite scenes of a pleasant past, it has lingered 
often in an imaginary Monday matinée, or in a long dimly lighted 
room from whose unsubstantial walls innumerable phantom books 
shed their silent influence of culture and education, and in both 


these scenes it has often met her who has shown so much kindness 


_ 





59 


‘to one who certainly did nothing to deserve it. But as perform- 
ance in the present is better than apology for the past, av will tell 
you, as I promised, a little of my journeyings. 

I started on the 1st of August, as you know, sped by Seed 
‘wishes from all my friends, among which your parting note came 
dike a benediction. When I think of what love and interest my 
friends take in my welfare and success, it seems to me sometimes 
as if I had a fearful responsibility resting on me, and I am op- 
‘pressed by the fear that my future may disappoint their wishes. 
‘But we are not travelling fast enough. I went immediately to 
Switzerland, and climbed and gazed, drinking in health and delight 
through every sense with every breath. I was very fortunate, 
and was able to see some of the grandest scenes very seldom 
visited among the crevasses of the great glaciers and the high 
peaks. Never have I enjoyed, never have I been more drawn to 
worship by the influence of nature. From Switzerland I went to 
the Ober-Ammergau play, with which I was also profoundly im- 
pressed. My feelings there were those which the finest devotional 
pictures of the sixteenth century awaken, but in a more vivid 
though less exalted degree. 

A rapid run through Western Germany and the Rhineland 
brought me to Paris, where I have settled down, studying draw- 
‘ing, design, art, and music, Such is my work, and it is a labor 
of love which is the best of acts. You can well appreciate how 
‘congenial a companion in such pursuits I have in Mr. Sanderson. 
We are both of us writing this evening at my table, in a cosey little 
parlor over in the Quartier Latin of Paris. A confusion of books, 
‘papers, and drawing materials (I do well to say a confusion, for I 


have just dipped my pen in Charles’s ink) covers the table... The 


60 


piano is open by my side, while opposite me the bookcase is be- 
ginning to show a modest collection, which I hope will grow with 
me. My two first drawings do their best to adorn the wall, and 
so we won’t be too severe on them if their success is but mediocre. 
Such is the situation of two of your protegés who have been very 
much favored in chances for happiness. Mr. 8. (who, by the way, 
only arrived from Switzerland yesterday morning) is going to add 
a line for himself. My life here is very quiet and yet very happy. 
I hope the three months of my stay will not belie the promise of 
their opening. Iam doing what I have always wanted to do, and 
what I should like to do my life long, if I did not feel so strongly 
that I must work, — studying all that is beautiful in this lovely 
world. 

Remember me most kindly to Mr. Waterston, and also to Mr. 
Perabo, and all who may take an interest in me. | 


Your sincere and loving boy-friend, 


Harry SIMPSON. 
Mrs. RoBert C. WATERSTON. 


Paris, October 22, 1871. 

Dear Mortuer,—Iam of age. Birthdays are the rage in our 
family at this time of the year, and as you have just sent me no- 
tice of yours, it made me blush to think that I had n’t remembered 
it in time to send you a word of greeting; and Bessie, of her 
arrival at sweet sixteen (tell her, by the way, that the answer 
shall not be long in coming) — why need that scruple of delicacy 
hinder me from announcing my anniversary ? 

The day passed quietly enough at my usual work, the authori- 
ties making no public demonstration to celebrate so important an 


event. I don’t know that I felt any bigger than usual, — my 





61 


clothes were none too small for me certainly, and altogether, if 
I’m more of a man, I certainly am no less of a boy. Friday 
morning, as I was shaving, my bell rang violently,— you know I 
have a little suite of apartments, parlor, waiting-room, bedroom, 
cabinet and entry, and a bell all to myself; it’s quite like keeping 
house, — and who should walk in but Mr. Charles W. Sanderson, 
bag and baggage, from Geneva? Of course there was hand- 
shaking and how-d’ye-doing without end, and after finishing my 
toilet we sat down to coffee together,— you know I have coffee 
and bread-and-butter served in my room at half past seven, while 
my other meals I take at Foyot’s restaurant. We then spent the 
whole day together, lessons going to grass for the day. We went 
to the Louvre and revelled in the pictures, then took a lunch in 
the Palais Royal, and then a long walk up to our banker’s, and 
then home. I expect to enjoy a great deal from his company. 
Excuse the looks of this sheet. I found, after writing these three 
pages, that I had dropped some crayon-dust on my blotter, and 
you have the result before you. It may console you to know 
that the obnoxious blotting-sheet is in the fire. 

My birthday and Mr. Sanderson’s arrival have been the only 
events during the week. To-day, after church, we took a carriage 
and drove out to St. Cloud. It was a lovely day, soft, warm, and 
clear. Before starting we had enjoyed the bird’s-eye view of Paris 
from the Arc de l’Etoile. There were very few domes or spires 
that were not in sight, and very few that I did not recognize. The 
Are, though struck forty or fifty times by shells, is yet so mag- 
nificently massive that its general effect was almost uninjured. 
These most terrible agents of modern war could only scratch the 


surface of so grand a monument, and make it perhaps the more 


62 


impressive for its scars and its superiority to them. The French,’ 
too, with their remarkable energy of recovery which they have 
shown everywhere in repairing the devastations of the war, are 
rapidly effacing even these marks of foreign invasion and. civil 
feuds, and the Arc will soon be in its old condition. Not so St.’ 
Cloud. The whole town is a mournful collection of charred and 
ruined walls. Nowhere have I seen the desolation and misery 
which follows the track of war so terribly stamped into a scene. 
The town was fired by the Prussians after the last sortie of the 
French, to prevent their effecting a lodgment there, and, as every- 
where else, so here they did their work thoroughly. The ruined 
town makes a fit approach to the palace, whose bare walls, with 
headless, armless statues in their crumbling niches, the rich bas-’ 
reliefs blistered and ruined by the flames, the cornices and mould- 
ings gone, and the empty window-spaces disclosing shapeless 
heaps of rubbish within, all speak of the barbarism of war; while 
from the inner walls of what were once stately and gorgeous halls, 
patches of blackened frescos and broken bits of exquisite carving. 
add their mute protest against the ruthless devastation of so: 
much patient artistic work, which found its beauty no excuse for 
being amid the fierce rude passions of a bitter fight. It was the: 
French who burned the palace as an act of bravado on the 
approach of the Prussians, and the wanton silliness of. the 
deed increases your indignation at the sight of so much art de- 


stroyed.).. 04% Harry. 


Paris, November 6, 1871. 


My pear Faruer,—On Friday came my whole batch of 


birthday letters, and your generous gift, coming upon all the kind’ 





63 


remembrances expressed in those letters, really almost overpowered 
me. It didn’t need this last occasion to call forth my thanks ; 
for the noble generosity and confidence that you have always shown 
to me haye constantly received what poor return I could make by 
the warmest gratitude and love of which I am capable. With 
such a father and such a home [I surely had no occasion to con- 
gratulate myself on becoming free. Indeed, my only bonds have 
been those of love, and they are stronger than ever. May they 
never be broken! Thank mother and Grace for their kind letters. 
Fouad quite a feast.of them.-. .-. . 
_ My week has been quite a varied one. On Monday I had the 
interview with Professor Ville. Tuesday passed as most of my 
days, divided between my various branches of work. Wednesday 
was All-Saints’ Day, and there was a vacation everywhere. I 
thought I would take it, like a good little boy, to write up various 
letters which I have been owing for a long time. But I had hardly 
got. started at my work before John Munroe came over with Frank 
Amory, another of my classmates, and Mr. Turnbull,- partner of 
Mr. Andrews. My friends had come to take me for a day’s 
excursion into the country. We went out to Fort Issy, a fort 
which suffered during the Prussian siege, and, being occupied by 
the Communists, was bombarded and finally taken by the Versailles 
troops during the second siege. It was terribly battered, and 
though much of the rubbish had been cleared up, still the ruined 
barracks and crumbled walls told a tale of war and devastation. 
I was strongly reminded of the looks of Fort Sumter. 
What rendered our visit to the fort all the more interesting was 
that there are three or four hundred Communist prisoners there, 


whom we saw through the barred windows of the casemates. 


64 


Rough, uncouth-looking, stupid wretches they seemed to be, though 
we could not go near enough to get a good sight at them. We 
had a curious instance of the insubordination which prevails at 
present throughout the French army, reflecting pretty faithfully the 
utter lack of all habits of obedience which the whole people show 
in their silly passion for revolution. The commandant of the fort 
had issued an order that no one should be allowed to mount the 
ramparts, and yet two of the soldiers offered, while we were there, 
to take us for a small fee upon the rampart, because they said the 
commandant was away. Such a breach of discipline would have 
been impossible in Prussia. The village of Issy, which was the 
scene of a furious conflict, bears more marks of fighting than any 
other place that I have seen, though throughout Paris grape-shot 
and musket-balls have left their mark on the houses. But here 
not a square foot was left without its six or eight bullet-holes, 
while the trees that lined the streets were absolutely riddled. That 


evening Frank Amory invited me to dine with him in honor of old 


On Thursday we went out to Pére la Chaise to see the decora- 
tion of the graves. Almost every tomb had its garland. The 
number of distinguished men whose bones rest in this cemetery is 
very remarkable. It gives another illustration of the power of a 
great city. Friday was a humdrum day as to incident, though the 
arrival of your letters made it a day to be remembered by me. 
Saturday brought me the news that Ned Whitney (Captain Israel 
Whitney’s son) was in town. I went over to see him in the even- 
ing, and yesterday he breakfasted with me, while I dined with 
him. You have no idea of the feeling with which two classmates 


who have been good friends at college meet afterwards. We talked 


65 


and laughed like mad, and decidedly misbehaved ourselves in every 
way, for we felt like a parcel of boys let out of school. Give my 


love to every one. 


Harry had now marked out, for his three months’ stay 
im Paris, work and study sufficient for as many years. Un- 
daunted by the hurry and distractions surrounding him, 
he actually piled Pelion on Ossa, and labored away as con- 
scientiously and as determinedly as though his holiday was 
not awaiting him, and the temptations of a glittermg city 
were not lying at his very door. His genuine enthusiasm and 
power of application served him in good earnest, and though 
the days overflowed with employment and improvement, he 
found time for many amusements; but they were often of the 
kind that bore upon the labor he had taken so boldly in hand. 
Accounts of his art studies, visiting, politics, and the collect- 
ing of books and pictures are so mingled in his home letters, 
that to have accomplished all that he had undertaken to do, 
his days must have been forty-eight hours long. But he had 
the rare faculty of making time, as we know, and at length, 
on the 24th of December, he writes the following to his 


sister : — 


«And so on Thursday, after packing my pictures and books, — 
for I’ve collected a handsome French library of some two hundred 
and fifty volumes, — we are off for Berlin, from which place I sup- 
pose my next letter will be dated. A few days of music there and 
at Leipsic, and then to Rome as fast as the locomotive can carry 
me. Give my best love to Aunt L. and everybody. Tell Nelly 

5 


66 


she shall have a letter in a week or so, for now I am leaving Paris 
1 hope for time to breathe. Ho for Berlin! and Good-bye, — 
says your loving brother.” 
DreEsprENn, December 30, 1871. 

My DEAR, GOOD, LONG-SUFFERING AUNT,— What a plague 
these same graceless nephews are, to be sure! They can’t even 
do you a pleasure without spoiling it by some atrocious lack of 
respect or some unpardonable neglect, and then they think, if 
they merely ask for pardon, pardon full and free is only their 
right. But somehow the aunts are never very hard on the 
young scapegraces, and their sins weigh but little more heavily 
on their aunts’ souls than their own; the upshot of which is, 
that I have been a very naughty boy in not answering the kind, 
long letter which gave me so much pleasure at Lucerne months 
ago; but it is so hard to get time for any but the regular letters 
that it is only here, this freezing Saturday, with a few idle hours 
before me, that I have commenced my reply. Paris and my 
pleasant life in the Quartier Latin is a thing of the past. That 
is the principal fact just at present. The little fragment of a 
home which I had established in my little quarters in the Rue 
de Tournon is broken up, and I am a little more of a waif than 


usual. 
Sunday, December 31. 


So much of a waif, you see, that I can’t ‘“‘stay put” long 
enough even to finish this letter at a sitting. Yes, I am out 
of Paris and out of France, and a little discouraged, after devot- 
ing three months to one language, to find myself, after a twelve 
hours’ ride, floundering in the depths of my ignorance of another. 


Here I am in Germany, sure enough, and this bleak winter night, 


J 
————————— a eee lll ee 


ee eee) oe ee 





67 


as I came through the dark streets in a hard snow-storm, the 
white covering bringing into sharp relief against the blackness 
of the sky the upright walls and all the anomalous roofs, the 
queer gables, the irregular lines, and the numberless little expres- 
sions of picturesque individuality in the shape of turrets, weather- 
cocks, oriels, cornices, and all the heterogeneous ornaments and 
whim-whams of German architecture, I realized what a different 
world my few hours in the cars had brought me into. 

You may wonder what bronght me into Germany at this curi- 
ously inappropriate time. What could it be, my dear auntie, 
but the German music? Classical music is a treat reserved for 
winter here, and as a trip in Europe would have been incomplete 
without hearing Beethoven and Schubert discourse in their own 
country and their own home, here we are, bundled up in over- 
coat and shawl, to listen to the divine strains, if they don’t get 
frozen up in the horns and flutes, like the notes in Baron Mun- 
chausen’s key-bugle. 

As there was to be one of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipsic 
on New Year’s Day, we directed our steps there, on leaving Paris 
last Thursday, and, finding there was little to be seen there, and 
that Dresden was near by, we came down here for a couple of 
days to admire and enjoy the Madonna di San Sisto. We go 
back to Leipsic to-morrow to the concert, and I shall keep this 
letter open long enough to give you a little account of our im- 
pressions. I have already had a preparation for the best in the 
music which I have heard in Paris. Almost every Sunday after- 
noon (for the classical music is only played there on Sunday) 
we formed a part of the grand audience of six thousand people 


who heard Pasdeloup’s orchestra. interpret the great works of 


68 


the German masters in the Cirque d’Hiver. This Pasdeloup, 
by the way, is a German, whose name, Wolfgang (wolf’s step), 
he himself has translated into French, to avoid national antipa- 
thies. This was a remarkably fine orchestra of a hundred musi- 
cians. In the strings Thomas is nearly equal to them, though 
they have a delicacy in shading and a variety and truth of ex- 
pression which he has not attained; but the loud instruments 
are beyond comparison better. The brass, for a wonder, never 
seems to share the boyish desire to make a lot of noise, and 
the reed instruments and flutes are marvellously delicate. 

At our first concert we heard the Midsummer Night’s Dream, 
by Mendelssohn, and in the Nocturne, which depends chiefly on 
the wind instruments, and the rendering of which was a revela- 
tion to me, often as I have heard it before, there was in partic- 
ular one exquisite cadence for the flute solo at the ending of a 
phrase, that was delicate enough to express the gossamer robe 
of Titania or Oberon’s faintest whisper of fairy love. It seemed 
no instrument of wood and metal, but some ethereal flute filled 
with the light breath of an elfin player. It was perfect. 

This orchestra we came to know very well; but once we had 
the greater pleasure of one of the Conservatoire concerts, of which 
we had always heard so much. It is enough to say we were 
not disappointed. We had thought Pasdeloup perfect till we 
went to the Conservatoire, but it was like reaching the top of a 
glacier to see the mountain-top still towering above you. Per- 
fection is the only word to apply to the Conservatoire. In pre- 
cision, in perfect accord, in delicacy, in balancing of parts, they 
are so nearly faultless that he who would pick a flaw must look 


and listen with care to find it. Any one part is as good as all 





69 


the rest. The double basses turn a phrase with the same deli- 
cacy and sentiment as the first violin. 

In their strongest passages there is always a reserve of force, 
and you are never deafened with their fortissimos, though the 
softest note is clear and distinct. The violas, ’cellos, and basses 
are more numerous in proportion to the higher strings than in 
Pasdeloup’s or in our American orchestras, and there results from 
this a deeper tone, which gives a certain dignity and richness 
of harmony to the grand works which they interpret, while their 
delicacy prevents any heaviness in lighter passages. They had 
a chorus, too, which was equal to the orchestra. Of course it 
is unfair to compare a small chorus to a large one, and so I 
.remain serene in my unchanged Bostonian belief in the Handel 
and Haydn Society; but at the same time I must confess to never 
before having known what an unparalleled instrument in con- 
certed music is the human voice. The same delicacy of expres- 
sion as of execution, which so charmed me in Nilsson, was 
here shown by a chorus of fifty or more, whose clearness of 
tone, perfect precision, and perfect accord with each other and 
with the orchestra were nothing short of marvellous. I have 
used strong language in speaking of this concert, but it is the 
finest by far I ever heard, and a man must be enthusiastic once 
in his life. It remains to be seen whether Leipsic will eclipse 
Paris, and where Berlin will stand beside the two. You shall 
have a word or two about that in closing. 

And now, to leave the fiddles and the bows, let us come to 
the belles. How is Bessie? I hope with all her young lady- 
ship’s cares she has not utterly neglected her piano. Mother tells 


me she is developing a fine voice. That will be delightful, and 


70 


she must spare no pains to learn to use well an instrument which 
is nature’s masterpiece and leaves men’s work far behind. I sup- 
pose she is just now rather more interested in her dancing. My 
congratulations to her on her opportunity, and best wishes for 
her success, — wishes and expectations, too, for I think she was 
born with the little red shoes that are always dancing. JRemem- 
ber me, too, to Julia, who will be another young lady, I sup- 
pose, when I come back, and to Ned, who, I dare say, would 
like to have joined the crowd I saw skating on the Elbe yes- 
terday and to-day. 

I can’t tell you how often I think of poor Anita in suffering 
and sickness so far off at home, and I sometimes wish I were 
at home, for it seems almost heartless to roam about among 
pictures and concerts when one of my own kith and kin is suf- 
fering at home. God grant she may be restored to her mother, 
and to us all. But it is getting late, and we return to Leipsic 
early to-morrow, so a good-night kiss. 

Your affectionate, but very negligent~ nephew 
Harry. 


P. 8. I have heard the famous Gewandhaus orchestra, and so 
high were my expectations raised that I must confess to a little 
disappointment. In point of feeling, though this might have been 
because the programme included Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony 
and the beautiful unfinished Symphonies of Schubert, they seemed 
a little more imbued with the spirit of the music than the Con- 
servatoire orchestra; but their fortissimos were just a trifle harsh, 
their brass a shade less mellow, there was lacking a little of 


that perfection of delicacy and exquisite light and shade which 


Aa 


lent such a charm to the Paris concert, and for accessories their 
solo violinist and solo singer were both open to criticism, while 
the Conservatoire chorus seemed open only to admiration. In 
a word, you see, I liked the Paris concert a little the best. But 
I have already tired you I fear, so I hardly can do better than 
to wish you a good morning and a Happy New Year. 


Yours, Harry. 


Lertrsic, January 2, 1872. 
F’ Dear MorueEr, — Away from Paris, once more a wanderer, and 
a Happy New Year to you from this old German city instead of 
from the gay capital of the world. But the week has been so full 


that without further introduction I will just begin my history at 


Tuesday I was occupied all day with the thousand last things 
about town, things to be bought, bills to be paid, arrangements 
to be made, and no end of little things to be done. In the even- 
ing we dined with a French family whose acquaintance Charlie had 
made. He met the young man, Maurice de la Perelle, in the 
Louvre, and as he had no catalogue Charlie lent him his, and the 
two strolled through the gallery together for a couple of hours, the 
young Frenchman talking a little English and Charlie having quite 
a talent at making himself understood by foreigners of every 
nation under heaven. The young fellow asked him to his mother’s 
reception. Charlie went, found her a charming woman, Very cul- 
tivated and quite a remarkable amateur painter, a favorite pupil 
of Cabanel. On their side they seemed quite as delighted with 
Charlie, who immediately won their favor by his exquisite playing 


and by his taste and refinement; and, as he had spoken of me to 


72 


them, an invitation for us both to a French dinner-party. Our 
hosts live for the main part of the year in the country, and in 
Paris merely rent a flat for the winter. The parlor —a room with 


dark paper almost covered with paintings, an original Claude and 





a Greuze among them 
embroidery, designed and worked by Madame, matching the cover- 
ings of the furniture, which were also the work of her hands, while 
the woodwork was carved and turned by her husband. The color- 
ing was very warm and rich, and the design very peculiar, giving at 
once a deep tone and bizarre character to the room. Madame de la 
Perelle was a lady of about forty, with the best face I have seen in 
France, — a face which showed at once unusual brightness, intelli- 
gence, and kindness of heart, with all the home virtues, which seem 
to us so foreign to the French character. She spoke very good 
English, and so was rather monopolized by Charlie, and I learned 
that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, for my slight acquaint- 
ance with French was a pretext which plunged me into a rapid tor- 
rent of a genuine French conversation. Shortly after we arrived 
_ came an old lady, an aunt or grandmother, who, standing stolidly 
bolt upright just inside the door, received with countenance un- 
changed a kiss on both cheeks from each of the assembled family 
before budging an inch farther. Not understanding the ceremony, 
I could not help thinking of Mr. F’s aunt, the stout old woman 
with the equally strong reticule, in “Little Dorrit,” I believe. The 
stony old lady was accompanied by two other ladies and a gentle- 
man, an uncle, and we soon went in to dinner. The conversation 
was like a mill-race. I had learned enough French to keep along 
with it pretty well, and to occasionally drop in my modest word. 


It was just like the conversation I have read in French novels, 


was furnished with curtains in worsted ° 


73 
bright, sparkling, almost wholly on persons, quite pictorial, and 
to a stranger really very interesting. ‘‘ Mais c’est une génie, 
un talent! Et avez-vous remarqué sa coiffure? C était une chose 
ravissante,’ and so on, with superlatives and intensity enough 
to startle a sober, moderate Yankee. After supper I had quite a 
conversation with the uncle, who is connected with one of the 
principal railroads leading out of Paris, was seized by the Com- 
munists as a hostage, confined at the Mazur Prison, and only re- 
leased through the agency of an acquaintance who held an office 
under the Commune a few hours before the other hostages were 
taken to La Roquette and shot, the Archbishop Darboy among 
them. One realizes what the Commune was, when he gets a little 
glimpse like this of some of its actual works. As the evening 
drew on, after coffee and cake we were treated to a little music, 
chiefly from a lady, a friend of the family, who had won the first 
prize at the Conservatoire in her day, and was a pupil of Herz. 
She played very finely, though a little lacking in expression. Soon 
after the music tea was brought in, and then we retired, gracefully, 
I hope. I have described one evening at length, for it was my 
only experience of French home-life, and I thought it would inter- 
est you. It was a bright moonlight night, and we walked home, 
so as to get a last impression of Paris in this effective light. The 
old Palais de Justice, with its gloomy medieval tower, carried me 
far back from this practical nineteenth century. The bridge with 
its heavy monumental stone arches, and the dark silent Seine flow- 
ing without a ripple or a murmur beneath, looked in the cold, 
vague half-light a fit scene for tragedies like Hood’s “ Bridge of . 
Sighs.” Midnight struck just as we reached Notre Dame, whose 


towers loomed up into the night above, the whole facade in shadow, 


74. 


so that we lost the delicacy and beauty, and got only the gloomy 
grandeur of an age of Crusades. 

Wednesday was passed packing, and the evening at Mrs. Mun- 
roe’s for dinner. She has been as kind to us as woman could be, 


and I shall always feel grateful to her for the kindness she showed 


Thursday morning we were off, and after a comfortable twelve 
hours’ ride got out in the evening at Cologne. A short walk and 
a few glimpses by moonlight sufficed us, for it was very cold. 

Friday we came to Leipsic, another all-day’s ride, and, finding 
the Gewandhaus concert was to be on Monday, New Year’s Day, 
and that there was but little to be seen in Leipsic, we went on 
Saturday morning to Dresden, reaching there at noon, hoping for 
some time, both on Saturday and Sunday, to see and worship with 
the Madonna di San Sisto. Saturday we had a couple of hours 
with our Lady, but on Sunday found, to our chagrin, that the 
Museum was closed for some reason which I did not know Ger- 
man enough to comprehend. 

Sunday we went to hear High Mass in the Cathedral, where the 
music is very fine, though it seemed to me a little operatic for 
church music. In looking about the church, I espied, leaning 
against one of the pillars, a classmate, J. 8. Lawrence, of Chicago. 
I was after him in a moment, went home with him and dined with 
him, and for five or six hours we talked over classmates, old times, 
politics, prospects, and every other topic that the run of the con- 
versation suggested. Tell Frank that’s what it means to go to 
college. 

Monday morning we came back here and went immediately to 


inspect the Gallery. It has several unimportant old masters, but 


‘ 79 


its gems are four large landscapes of Calame, (O, how I wanted to 
buy one of his that I saw in Paris for thirteen hundred dollars !) 
one of which, a view of Monte Rosa, is perhaps his masterpiece, 
and certainly the grandest mountain-piece I ever saw. The promi- 
nent lines in it are horizontal, although it is the picture of a high 
mountain; but this very effect, combined with a remarkable per- 
spective and a vast expanse of clear sky above, gives the idea of 
vastness which you get among the mountains as no other picture 
I have ever seen begins to do. There is also here a very fine 
painting by Paul Delaroche, Napoleon at Fontainebleau. He is 
sitting in a chair buried in thought, and his fine face grandly ex- 
presses the mind of a demigod dethroned but not crushed. His 
mind is still in equilibrium, still working regularly, and if you see 
the pain of past defeat and failure, you see the resolution of future 
success. ‘The former obscures the latter, but the latter is still 
there. It is a masterly work, and none but Paul Delaroche could 
have painted it. We heard in the evening the concert at the 
Gewandhaus by an orchestra said to be the finest in the world, 
but we both—though of course a single hearing gives ground 
enough only for an impression, not for an opinion — thought the 
orchestra of the Conservatoire, in Paris, a trifle better. But of 
my musical impressions I have said more in my letter to Aunt 
Julia. We go to Berlin to-night, where I expect, with some 
anxiety, a letter from you, and from which place you will receive 


the next from your loving son Harry. 


Berwin, January 9, 1872. 
Drar Motuer,— Three of your dear letters lie on the table, 


but I shall have to let a single sheet answer them all, for I am 


76 


too tired to write more to-night: You will have to count the 
three letters I have despatched to Paris as part answer; that to 
Mme. Maillou, being in French, ought to go at least for two..... 
And now for myself. We left Dresden Monday morning, returned 
to Leipsic, saw the gallery there, with some Calames that I wish 
Grace could see, and a fine Paul Delaroche; heard a concert at the 
Gewandhaus of which I have spoken more fully in a letter to Aunt 
Julia, and then the next morning to Berlin, where we studied the 
gallery, confounded the cooking, — you see we are just from Paris © 
and a little dainty, — heard concerts, were dazzled and stunned by 
magnificence of sight and sound at the opera, and, in short, did 
the city. The German cooking, by the way, with its heterogeneous 
messes, whose names are unpronounceable as their substance is 
indigestible, gave me the luxury of a jolly indigestion. But now 
I’m all right, having discovered one restaurant, the best in Berlin, 
equal to a second-class Parisian café. The opera here is mag- 
nificent in every respect, . . . . the picture-gallery extensive, though 
poor in masterpieces. We have studied it quite attentively, for, 
especially in the. early schools, it is quite full, and therefore a 
good place to see and follow the development of art. We leave 
on Thursday for Munich, where I shall hope for time to write you 
a longer letter next Sunday. My love to father, Grace, Frank, 
(have I thanked him for his note?) and all, and receive, my own 
dear mother, to-night a little morsel of the full measures of love 


which are ever yours in the heart of 
Your son 
Harry. 


at 


Municu, January 12, 1872. 

My DEAR, BUT LONG-NEGLECTED Sister, —I have a few 
hours this afternoon to myself, for I did not meet Deming here 
as I expected, and a morning at the gallery was all I could stand. 
... . But now the table @héte over, and a little leisure, —a mar- 
vel indeed, this busy year,— I have been reading over and enjoying 
your loving letters, of which the last, I blush to say, bears date 
on my birthday. You will not need to be told that it has not 
been forgetfulness on my part that has made the delay so long, 
for my letters to mother have told you what a pace Time has 
oper here). 2... What a pity it is we have to sleep! If I 
could spend eight hours a day in seeing, hearing, and enjoying, 
eight in study, and eight in writing to the dear friends with 
whom I should like to keep up a constant intercourse, — well, in 
that case I suppose I) should want twenty-four hours a day more 
to be devoted to the same pursuits. So there is not much use 
in wishing. From my home letters you have probably traced 
my journey from Paris. It was a pretty frigid time to take 
Germany, but the music has paid me for it, though quite con- 
trary to my expectations; of the three best orchestras that we 
have heard, two have been in Paris, the other the famous Ge- 
wandhaus orchestra of Leipsic. You have no idea what compli- 
ments I got, Nelly, from my, music-teacher in Paris, M. Lubeck, 
one of the professors at the Conservatoire, and one of the best 
teachers in Paris. He said so much to me that I absolutely 
wanted to stay there another three months and devote my time 
to music alone, and, Nelly, if you are ever again in Paris, sell 
all that you possess and get a ticket to a Conservatoire concert. 


They are the perfection of music. However, I will not dwell 


78 


on this theme. I have written a full description of my concert 
experiences to Aunt Julia, and you can ask her for the letters 
if they would interest you. Now I am on my way to Rome. 
Don’t you feel envious? I know youdo. Rome is drawing me 
with such an irresistible attraction that I count every hour lost 
until I get there, and so I travel night and day. This evening, 
at eleven, I start from here (I left Berlin yesterday noon, arriving 
here only this morning), and to-morrow night I shall be in Milan, 
where I intend to spend Sunday with Will Hodges, who writes. 
me that his music-master prophesies great things of him; Mon- 
day I shall be off again, and Tuesday morning I hope to wake 
up in the Eternal City. I had rather a curious ride from Berlin. 
As I was to be out all night, I took a first-class ticket, in order to 
have room to stretch and be comfortable. I was the only ‘“ first- 
class” on the train, and the respect which the guards showed 
me was perfectly overpowering. They have taken me for noth- 
ing less than a Grand Duke. I hope I did not shock their 
respect for nobility in the sequel, but it was a bitter cold night, 
and after vainly endeavoring to keep warm, I took up the hot- 
water foot-warmer and laid it alongside of me, and enjoyed a 
good snooze with my comfortable bedfellow. You know, ever 
since Lord Timothy Dexter, we Newburyporters have been 
partial to warming-pans! I believe in our former journey we 
discovered how completely geographers were in error in assert- 
ing that the climate grew warmer as you went South, and you 
may tell Wallace that he is at liberty to make use of my obser- 
vations, if he chooses, for an article in the “Clinic.” .... 
The streets were so cold that the gallery seemed quite a para- 


dise of warmth, but before I had been there two hours the gal- 





79 


lery was so cold I took refuge in the streets again. If this is 
your Southern clime, give me Spitzbergen, in the open Polar 
Sea, for a winter residence, instead of Capri or the Lake of 
Como. 

Well, I haven’t told you much about Europe, have I? I 
might retort upon you, and ask whether you were more inter- 
ested in Europe than your brother; but you would be sure to 
have some killing repartee to return the thrust, and so I will 
not enter the lists. I might tell you of the opera at Berlin, 
where we saw Meyerbeer’s “ L’Africaine’? and Wagner’s “ Ri- 
enzi,” put upon the stage in such a way that it seemed as if 
the thrifty Germans were rapidly spending the five millions 
which they have squeezed out of France in riotous living. 
Even ‘“‘The Prophet,” as we saw it given in Paris, in the days 
of Napoleon’s splendor, paled before the gorgeousness of cos- 
tumes and mise en scene which the new Emperor, Old William, 
has commanded for this gala winter. Singers and _ orchestra, 
too, are as fine as the accessories, so that the operas absolutely 
bewildered one, such magnificence of sight and sound kept rolling 
in upon his dazzled eyes and half-stunned ears. They have a 
tenor with a voice that I could think of nothing better to com- 
pare it to, when I wrote Will Whitney, than a Doomsday 
trumpet; and a lovely little soprano, whose acting was so pas- 
sionate and yet so free from all touch of coarseness that I 
declare I almost lost my heart for her. The orchestra is also 
marvellously good, picked from all Germany, and making the, 
accompaniment a symphony in itself. To hear ‘ Rienzi” thus 
given was to be converted to Wagner. I never heard an opera 


that approached it in grandeur. I went home feeling tired out 


80 


x 


and half stunned, as if my head had been pounded, but I felt 
also as if I had seen Macbeth or Richard III. well acted. It 
may be strained and forced, and so inartistic, to keep one up 
to such a pitch throughout, and it is a terrible strain on the 
performers (it will be long before we hear Wagner well given 
in America), but of the power there is no more doubt than of 
Gustave Doré’s. In this opera the scenery was a perfect and 
artistic picture of Rome, and in one act Rienzi the tenor came 
upon the scene at the head of his 1roops— over a hundred in 
number, while another hundred of peasants and citizens crowded 
the stage—on a real horse, accompanied by his aids, similarly 
mounted, and sung his part during the whole act on horseback, 
prancing up and down, and reviewing his little army in the 
proudest manner during the choruses. The horse was shod 
with felt, so as not to make any noise, and appeared quite at 
home before an audience. So much for music..... I am 
now thinking of taking two months, after I come from Italy, 
to settle down in some little German village and to devote myself 
exclusively to the language. Whether my strength of mind 
will be sufficient for the sacrifice I don’t know, but I think it 
would be the best thing that I could do. I can speak French 
pretty well now, and if I could advance German into some- 
thing like the same state it would be of great use to me here- 
after. But my letter is growing prosy and I will say good bye. 
You need not fear that my stay in Europe, much as I see and 
hear that is beautiful, is weaning my heart from home. On 
the contrary, my letters from America are my greatest pleasure, 
a pleasure that would be unalloyed could I hear better news 


of Anita. I hope, however, that the favorable tone of my last 


_—~ ’ 





81 


letters from home may continue, and grow more and more 
decided. Give my love to Wallace, and believe me 
Ever your loving brother 


Harry. 


Mizan, January 14, 1872. 

Drar Moruer, — Now that I have begun to travel, you see, 
I am a regular will-o’-the-wisp, emulating, so far as my rather 
heavy corporal nature will allow of it, Puck’s boast to Oberon. 
But whether at Paris or Leipsic or Dresden or Berlin or Mu- 
nich or Timbuctoo, for that matter, I assure you that my heart is 
untravelled, and I enjoy these chats, however unsatisfactory, which 
every week brings, though it is often a struggle to get the time for 
them. At last, I am happy to say, I am in Italy. I left the 
region of snow as I came down from the Alps, and now, though 
it is raw and chilly here, I am not absolutely frozen, as I very 
nearly was in Germany... . . But I suppose you would like my 
week’s chronicle. On Monday then, not being very well, I kept 
my room and wrote off six or seven notes about business matters, 
and, like a good little boy, went early to bed. A night’s rest 
brought me on my feet again, and my feet took me naturally to 
the picture-gallery once more, where I looked over a full collection 
of Albert Diirer’s engravings and woodcuts. It was very interest- 
ing, for I had my “ Kiigler,” my now unfailing companion in the 
picture-galleries, and I was able to compare his criticisms with my 
own impressions, as well as learn the circumstances attending the 
_ different plates. I was an utter sceptic as regards Albert Diirer 
and his artistic powers till I came abroad this time, and even now 
I think there is a great deal of humbug in the talk made over him, 

6 


82 


but some of his works J admire very much indeed. While it is 
very seldom that they attract one from any beauty in them, yet 
there is often an earnestness, an intensity, a depth of feeling and 
of meaning, which reconciles me quite to his homely faces, his 
stiff angular drapery, his crowded and confused composition, and 
his fantastic accessories. After looking over the collection of 


Diirer engravings and Rembrandt etchings, we went down to the 





picture-gallery with the E s to take a last look at our favorite 
pictures there. I won’t trouble you with a description of them, 
for it is rather stupid to read about pictures that you have not 
seen, and I believe the gallery was closed during our visit to Ber- 
lin four years ago. The afternoon we spent in getting photo- 
graphs of the best pictures, and I have also indulged myself by 
purchasing a couple of Diirer’s original woodcuts of the larger 
series representing the Passion. They are celebrated, and, rough 
as is their execution, I admire them very much. ... . The even- 
ing gave me a delightful vocal concert, one soprano in particular 
having a voice so soft and delicate and. lovely that while I main- 
tained that it resembled Correggio’s picture of Jupiter and lo, 
Charley declared that it was more like a glass of delicious to- 


kay which we were drinking, a dispute not yet settled between 


At eleven o’clock my train started for Italy over the Brenner 
Pass. It was the coldest, most uncomfortable ride that I ever 
took. The seats of the car were so divided that I could not lie 


out, but had to sit bolt upright. I put two coats on under my 


overcoat, wrapped my rug about my legs, put one of the hot water . 


concerns behind me on the seat, had the other one under my feet, 


and even then was so cold I could not sleep. But as the morning 





83 


dawned we got down from the Alps, and it began to grow a little 
more tolerable, and by the time we reached Verona I was out of 
danger of being frozen. Italy seemed so natural that I felt de- 
lighted all through yesterday’s ride at the sight of the vines and 
the beggars and the tumble-down houses, for they all recalled 
our visit there five years ago. In the afternoon, at a little before 
six, I reached Milan, and after dinner I went to the famous Teatro 
della Scala to hear Verdi’s “ Forza del Destino.” But neither 
singing nor music was as fine as I had heard in Berlin, and after 
standing up through three acts I came home to the hotel. I went 
to bed at eleven, and I woke up definitely (I had had before several 
little wakings of five minutes or so in length, which I don’t count) 
at one o'clock: to-day, having had a cat-nap of fourteen good hours. 
Consequently I no longer feel the effects of my long ride..... 
And so, my dear mother, for the last two hours I have been hav- 
ing a real good talk with you, and telling you all about my doings, 
as a good child should. To-morrow [I shall try to catch a glimpse 
of Will Hodges. Tuesday I shall start for Rome, and Wednesday 


morning no doubt will see me in the Eternal City. 


Rome, January 28, 1872. 

Dear Moruer,— A week more in Rome has sufficed to see 
a great deal, and to convince me how much more there is to 
be seen than I shall be able to accomplish. 

Rome is changing very much. In the first place the removal 
of the Italian capital here has brought a great deal of gayety and 
life into the city by bringing the Court, and with it many wealthy 
people and the best society of Italy. The Roman nobles have 


been rather sulky about the change of government, but are now 


84 


beginning to come round. So as to do the thing decently and in 
order, many of the ladies who put on black to commiserate with 
the Pope in his captivity now appear in purple or half-mourning. 
Then, to take quite another part of the city, among the old ruins 
excavations are going on with great energy. The Forum has now 


been excavated almost entirely from the Capitol to the three col- 


umns of the Minerva Chalcidica, and the excavations are still . 


being vigorously pursued. 

Almost all the principal sites are pretty well fixed. In the 
Palace of the Ceesars, too, and the Baths of Caracalla, they have 
excavated very thoroughly. The energy of the new government 
is seen in almost every street, for they are laying an entire new 
series of gas-pipes to replace the old ones, which were too small 
for their requirements. The people seem astonishingly contented 
with the Italian government when one considers that they are now 
for the first time heavily taxed, as during the Papal rule the 
expenses of government were paid by the contributions of the 
faithful throughout the world. 

The Italians, however, seem to have inherited something of the 
political good sense which was so strong in Rome during her 
prime, and at present they appear to have less trouble in store for 
them from the people than any other nation in Europe. 

To come back to myself and my week, January 30. Abso- 
lutely my first moment, and now to get this off to-morrow I must 
make -it shorter than I should like to. You see, in addition to 
reading Murray attentively, I am now dashing through Kiigler, 
Story, Taine, Mrs. Jameson, and Ruskin, with occasional snatches 
of Ferguson, and am reading with Cabot Lodge, Suetonius in the 


original, which completely takes up my evenings. I forgot to say 





85 


I am also studying Italian. My days of course are spent from 
morn till dewy eve in seeing, though I am trying to see intelli- 
gently, so as not to merit that definition of a traveller as a pair of 
opera-glasses on stilts, i. e. eyes and legs by the natural working 
of the law of development. | 

Monday we three — Cabot Lodge, Frank Amory, and your son — 
took a delightful walk in the Campagna out on the old Via Latina, 
to some Roman tombs which contain certain beautiful stucco-work, 
marvellously preserved. After basking in the sun all the morning 
we returned, and. I devoted my afternoon to letters. 

Tuesday I went with Mr. Sanderson to inspect galleries. We 
went through two, the Doria and the Colonna, very thoroughly ; 
but I will not stop to chronicle results, beyond that I am getting 
delightfully familiar with the old masters (tell Ralph when I 
return I shall expect him to enlighten me as to their inferiority to 
our present schools), and am getting, I think, to appreciate criti- 
cisms upon them, and to form at least rational opinions of my 
own. Our afternoon was begun in admiration of the beautiful 
dome of the Pantheon, and continued in a ramble through the 
Ghetto. Wednesday, with Cabot Lodge and his ladies, I went 
round visiting churches, taking San Luis, Sant’ Agostino, Santa 
Maria della Pace, where are Raphael’s lovely Sibyls, and Santa 
Maria sopra Minerva. In the afternoon Cabot and I walked out 
to the Celian Hill, and visited a couple of churches there, in one 
of which are beautiful frescos of Guido and Domenichino. 

Thursday, with Charley, I took to the palaces again, visiting 
and studying the Scialla and the Barberini. The Vanity and 
Modesty of Leonardo in the Scialla (do you remember it ?) is, I 


think, one of the most fascinating pictures [ ever saw, and Raph- 


86 


ael’s Violin-player, in the same gallery, is another bit that ab- 
sorbed half an hour. In the Barberini the two great pictures are 
puzzles to me, Guido’s Beatrice di Cenci and Raphael’s Fornarina. 
What is exactly meant by those wonderful eyes and that quivering , 
mouth of Beatrice, whether remorse or fear or simple wonder 
and stupefaction, I cannot tell; and why Raphael ever painted 
the Fornarina, much less loved her, is to me a matter of utter be- 
wilderment. Friday was spent again with Cabot and his ladies, 
still among the churches. 

The Santa Trinita, with Daniele da Volterra’s wonderful fres- 
cos, — of which, by the way, I have a proof of Toschi’s, — began 
this morning. Then came San Pietro in Montorio, and Michael 
Angelo’s Moses, the most marvellous expression of power that I ever 
saw in marble, as his ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is by all odds 
the greatest and most impressive of paintings. Then to another 
church, and in the afternoon out on several errands. 

Saturday we went to the Capitol again, to get better acquainted 
with that respectable and gentlemanly company of liberal rulers, 
the Roman Emperors, and also to enjoy once more the beauties of 
the Venus and the Gladiator, with the lesser works which surround 
them. The afternoon was spent in the Villa Borghese and 
grounds, where I regret to say I was much disappointed in the 
face of Canova’s statue of Pauline Bonaparte. It is simply one of 
Canova’s pretty empty faces. The figure and pose are beautiful, 
but to call it a Venus Victrix is absurd. If Venus had no more 
character than is expressed in this face, she would never have been 
Venus Victrix. The week wound up with a grand sunset from the 
Pincian, in which St. Peter’s, backed by a dark gray cloud from 


behind which the sun sent a flood of light over hill and dale, 


a e 7 7 
—— soe 1 


87 


spire and dome, to the right, leaving the great cupola cold and 
untinged by the glory, made a striking feature. 
Of my doings from Sunday on, more in my next. JI have no 
room for messages to-day, but love to all from 
Your boy - 
HARRY. 


Rome, February 28, 1872. 

DEar Morner,—I suppose you would like to know of my 
doings the last week, and more, since my last letter. ~ On Monday 
we went to the Museo Borbonico to study the bronzes and some 
of the antiques more thoroughly, and to glean, if we could, what- 
ever there was that was fine in the dreary gallery. On my return 
I received Will’s letter, telling me how alarmingly ill Vicco was. 
It was a great shock to me, though I had been in some measure 
prepared for it by previous letters. Little as I have known him, 
Vicco’s influence has penetrated deeper into my mind, and I have 
learned to love and admire him more than any other man whom 
I have ever met, and the thought that I may never see him again 
made me feel very, very sad. I didn’t know what to do, and the 
next day, which we spent at Pompei, I was thinking about him, 
and what [ could do to help or comfort him, or at all events to let 
him know how deeply my thoughts were with him. I made up 
my mind on Wednesday morning to send the telegram which you 
have received and sent to Margaret. Since then it has kept 
coming over me whenever I have been alone, that little home 
down South which he wanted to make so bright and did make 
so happy for Margaret, and all the trouble and sorrow which his 


terrible disease has brought into it... .. 


88 


It is not my nature to brood over sorrow, and I have n’t seemed 
to feel half what I have really felt. I have gone on with the ordi- 
nary tourist’s life just as before, and, strange to say, enjoyed what 
I have seen. It is only at these times when I am alone that 
I realize the probable loss of one of my very dearest friends. 

But I will not make my letter too dark by dwelling on this 
subject, though of course it is first in my thoughts. 

Tuesday, as I said, we spent at Pompeii, and it was very in- 
teresting, of course. The paintings on the walls, to be’ sure, are 
rough and sketchy, often imaccurate in parts, but as successful 
pieces of wall decoration I hardly know of anything better. We 
saw them excavating in one part of the city, and the thorough way 
in which every particle of earth was turned over before being taken 
away was very interesting. 

Wednesday we went up to San Martino, and enjoyed the superb 
view it commands still more than the many paintings which the 
church contains. It made me ache in the church to see such 
gorgeous marbles so tastelessly employed as they are in this over- 
loaded interior. 

Thursday we went by rail to Vietri on that wonderful Amalfi 
road, and took that glorious ride, the finest in Italy, spending the 
night at Salerno. I was with the Lodges, the Amorys, Mr. San- 
derson, Mrs. Charles Sumner, and an English gentleman, Captain 
Bourville, with a party of three ladies, and the next day we all 
went to Pestum. We had one of those lovely, bright Neapolitan 
days which are so charming, though so enervating, and I would n’t 
have missed the excursion for the world. I never before had an 
idea of what the perfection of the Greeks in architecture was, and 


never in my life have I been more deeply impressed by any build- 


89 


ing. It is perfectly simple (the main temple I mean, that of Nep- 
tune), merely a rectangle of great columns supporting a plain 
entablature, with a heavy cornice; but the proportions are so per- 
fect, the competency of support of these sturdy columns give such 
a perfect repose and majesty to the building, and its severe sim- 
plicity is so free from any of the falseness and straining after 
effect which spoils so many later buildings, that one is moved to 
silent admiration involuntarily. Then the contrast of these great 
exertions of the human intellect in its highest development with 
the desolation around them; the thought of the centuries which 
hung heavily about them, of the centuries even during which they 
had stood deserted and alone in this great plain, unchanging amid 
all the fluctuations of men and states about them; and lastly the 
beautiful contrast of color which the warm brown hue of the 
travertine produced, jas it stood out boldly against the bright 
blue southern sky, all combined to heighten the charm of these, 
ruins, so that I know of no sight in Europe, unless perhaps 
the Acropolis of Athens, which can compare with these old 
temples. 

We returned that night to Naples, and I received your despatch. 
Saturday was spent in doing nothing, and on Sunday, after church, 
I had a bad headache, which prevented my writing, except a 
letter to Will already too long delayed. | 

Monday we came back to Rome, and Tuesday I spent with 
Cabot in wandering about here for the last time together. We 
went in the morning to the Capitol, where we studied again the 
faces of the Czesars, whose lives we had just been reading (for we 
have finished Suetonius, —not a bad bit of work to do during a 


year’s vacation; you see I am proud enough of it), and it is as- 


90 


tonishing to see how well their characters are written in their 
faces. 

In the afternoon we sauntered out through the Forum, (O, how 
many pleasant strolls of the kind I’ve had with Cabot since I 
came to Rome!) and, stretching out on the walls of Rome near St. 
John Lateran, we lay there for an hour or more looking out over 
the Campagna to the lovely Alban Hills and talking over all sorts 
of things. At last we came back, and this morning they left for 
Florence. I am not quite alone, however, for Frank Amory is 
here vat: the: same+hotel..293%2 Good by! I will write as soon as 
my plans ate decided. Give my love to all, and tell Frank that 
I have already picked up a piece of porphyry for him. A good-by 


kiss from your loving son 
Harry. 


Harry was thoroughly in his element in Rome. We see 
that his letters are filled with one prolonged record of the 
crowded hours there, —art criticisms redolent of the bright- 
ness of the boy of one-and-twenty, the thoughtfulness of the 
man of thirty; trenchant observations of men and things, 
that were all jotted down with that frank umreserve and 
sturdy honesty of opinion which sprang from the generosity 
of his nature quite as much as from his mdependent, un- 
affected judgment, and which contact with the world was mel- 
lowing every day. Naples was a delightful détowr, but Harry 
returned to Rome with the fixed purpose of hastening to 
America to join the dear friend, Baron Von Stralendorf, 


whose severe illness seemed to warrant any sacrifice he could 


92 


make, even to curtailing his year of travel. On the 3d of 
March, 1872, he writes his mother : — 


. ... The past week has been very busily spent, though my 
thoughts have been mostly across the water with Vicco and Mar- 
garet. I have been finishing up the sights of Rome, and now 
very little remains that I have not seen. This coming week I 
shall spend mostly in revisiting the places and pictures which have 
interested me most, and I hope for much pleasure from it. 

Among~the churches I have visited this last week you will no 
doubt remember the Capuccini, with Guido’s beautiful picture of 
St. Michael, (I ought to get a copy of my patron saint, ought I 
not?) and down stairs the grim humor and ghastly fancy of the 
bone arabesques and ornaments. I never quite realized before 
how a skull could grin; but those old worm-eaten monks seem to 
laugh with such terrible and bitter satire in their dusty, decaying 
cowls that the Dance of Death seems to have found its counterpart 
in reality. The mad goblin life that Holbein has put into his 
skeletons seems to sleep in these grisly shapes beneath the church, 
and it needs only a little imagination to set it again into action 
before one’s eyes. Another church, which no doubt you recol- 
lect, is San Clemente. Here, too, much of the interest is under 
ground, but not of so gloomy a kind. It is a curious commentary 
on the age of Rome, — these three temples, one upon the other, 
and the latest of them flourishing in a green old age of six or 
seven hundred years. I blush at my lack of reverence, but I can- 
not help laughing at the ridiculous things which the critics dignify 
with the high-sounding title of Early Christian Art. It seems to 


be always about on a level with the tattooing of some tribes of sav- 


92 


ages, and only proves the more conclusively into what barbarism the 
world had sunk after the fall of the pagan civilization. In those 
days I think I would rather have been an Arab, for they had all 
there was in art or science in that dark time. The people who 
were building the Alhambra and cultivating astronomy and mathe- 
ratics, who were starting out timidly and blindly, it is true, but 
still starting out in the various natural sciences, have more interest 
for me than this parcel of quarrelsome, treacherous, and licentious 
barbarians, who, with one or two bright exceptions, seem to have 
- no thought beyond fighting and cheating one another. 

To be sure, they were laying the foundations for our time, but in 
the tenth or eleventh century one could n’t have known this, and 
he would have found little else to console him for the ignorance, 
rudeness, and violence about him. 

The other day I passed several hours in St. Peter’s, a worthy 
temple for the new paganism. I can see very little Christianity in 
it. It is vast, gorgeous, almost oppressive in its magnificence, a 
place for pomp and show, the ceremonial of an impressive ritual, 
great processions with splendid robes, ensigns, and resounding 
music. These are the tricks by which the priests of a pagan 
religion enhance the false glory of their God. . 

The Gothic cathedrals are the only buildings I have seen in 
which Christianity has found expression. The. spirit of prayer is 
breathed from their lofty vaults and dark stones, while the bright 
glory of their windows shining in on the deep shadows seems like 
a smile from heaven amid the trials and troubles of earth. 

To me a prayer in St. Peter’s would be like a petition to one 
of the Czesars in the days when the Empire was the world. I 


should want to give it to a priest, that he might pass it through a 


93 


saint to the Virgin, and then I should feel as to its acceptance like 
the poor fellow who had intrusted his request to the courtier of a 
courtier. The church is very impressive, but it is a very worldly 
impressiveness. 

In Santa Maria della Pace there is a fresco which pleases me 
very much,— Raphael’s four Sibyls. In nothing is the contrast 
between Raphael and Michael Angelo better seen than in the 
difference between these Sibyls and those of the Sistine Chapel. 
It is such folly to compare them, instead of giving both full admi- 
ration. Raphael’s are happy and beautiful, like all that came from 
his pencil; they are the embodiment of cheerful, happy life, and 
even the old woman wears her old age lightly and contentedly. 
Taine constantly compares Raphael with Mozart, and indeed they 
have much in common. Michael Angelo’s women seem of a 
different race from ours. Even the beautiful Delphine Sibyl is 
happy on a greater scale than we can be, and the intensity of 
action, the sense of supernatural power, the tragic grandeur of 
the rest make of them a race by themselves. I have seen no 
representative of the human form that has impressed me so deeply 
as this population of the Sistine Chapel. I am inconsistent, you 
see. Jam doing what I declared myself against, but it is merely 
because grandeur appeals to me more strongly than beauty. 1 
cannot say whether it should do so or not, and there lies the 


heart of the question. .... 


Rome, March 16, 1872. 
Dear Wii, —I have n’t written to you for an age, to be sure, 
but then, as you’ve paid me the same compliment, there is no 


need for either to apologize or quarrel about it. 


94 


My last, if I remember rightly, was from Paris, and gave you 
what I had been able to pick up as to matters and things there. 
It is curious to see how rapidly Time turns his whirligig about. 
Ten years ago or a little more how people would have laughed to 
hear the condition of Italy compared with that of France. 

The comparison is considerably nearer even now, and I doubt 
whether the outlook ahead is not better for Italy. She at least has 
very little of the revolutionary Red Republican element in her, and 
her main problem seems to be the deficit. But the Mont Cenis 
Tunnel and the Suez Canal, by making Brindisi the best port of 
shipment, will undoubtedly bring an immense traffic through Italy, 


and commerce under a liberal government —and the Italian is a 





very liberal government— will bring industry and enterprise, 
which means wealth. Then the government, in taking the lands 
of the little kings, princes, and grand dukes who formerly mis- 
ruled the peninsula, had to take of course also the burdens and 
servitudes upon it in the shape of a vast number of pensions, sine- 
cures, etc., which make quite a good bit of the deficit, and which, 
as people must die some time, it may be hoped will grow lighter 
every year. It is the fashion, I believe, at home, to lay down as a 
datum that the Latin races are played out, and hence to ridicule 
the idea of Spain or Italy doing anything more in the world. I 
believe as strongly as any one that the day of: the Teutonic races 
has come, but I very strongly believe that the Latins are going to 
live and thrive alongside. The kingdom of Italy has been doing 
a good work here, founding schools, setting the beggars to work, 
killing the brigands, or, better still, making honest peasants of 
them, — in a word, spreading education and encouraging industry. 

Brigandage, which, after the war of 1860, when Garibaldi 


95 


brought Victor Emanuel the two Sicilies, had assumed a half- 
political character, as a Bourbon guerilla warfare has been thor- 
oughly extirpated, at least for the time, except in the remote 
mountainous districts of Southern Italy and im. Sicily, and the 
number of lazzaroni in Naples has been reduced from almost one 
third to one tenth of the population. ‘These are very good things 
to have done in ten years immediately following centuries of a 
tyranny driven out, too, not so much by a popular uprising as by 
foreign aid. In Rome the government has a more difficult task 
before it apparently. The paternal autocracy of the Holy Father 
was much more tolerable than the bare-faced and cruel oppression 
of Bourbon, particularly as the faithful throughout the world 
helped pay the taxes, and the Papal government gave large sums 
in charity. A man who has had a decently comfortable life as a 
beggar hardly likes to go to work, and so, as the gain of freedom 
means the necessity of work, many of the Romans are doubtless 
feeling like a man who has just jumped into a cold bath for the 
first time; it may be good for him, but he can’t help shivering. 
Then, as the taxes are now paid by Romans, instead of Irish 
servant-girls in our own free land, they are much heavier, and are 
naturally grumbled at. Add that the price of land has risen 
enormously, and the price of living also; that the reign of law, 
succeeding the reign of favor, has naturally incensed all the favor- 
ites ; that the clergy, whose power is of course immense in Rome 
with a people whom they have brought up by their own recipes 
for insuring submission and docility, are irreconcilable enemies to 
the new régime, and you have of course the materials of a very 
wide-spread discontent. And yet the government is doing an im- 


mense deal for Rome. It has opened schools, it is lighting the 


96 


streets better than ever before, it is prosecuting the excavations 
with unexampled vigor, it is laymg out new avenues and listening 
to all feasible plans for improving the city. That is good work, 
and will have its effect in time; but meanwhile I fear the discon- 
tent remains. Three occasions seem to me to give some indica- 
tions of the state of feeling in Rome: 1. The Jesuits having been 
entangled in a discussion with some Protestants about the evi- 
dence of St. Peter having been Bishop of Rome, and with a result 
rather discouraging, I am told, to the believer, the Pope called a 
solemn ¢riduo, or prayer for three days, at St. Peter’s, which came 
off last week. It was undoubtedly a success as a manifestation, 
for St. Peter’s was crowded, and that means a great deal. I have 
heard the number present on Sunday estimated at twenty-five 
thousand, which is, I dare say, exaggerated. At all events, it 
showed that the Pope’s influence was still strong. 

2. Thursday was the King’s birthday. Flags were flying from 
almost every house, and it seemed as if the symbol of united Italy 
was the one object of the people’s devotion. But in the afternoon 
Prince Humbert reviewed a large body of troops, which lined one 
side of several streets, making a line of a couple of miles. The 
streets were crowded with people, but although all took off their 
hats there was almost no cheering, nor could I notice any sign of 
enthusiasm as the Prince and his suite, with their handsome uni- 
forms, or the Princess Margherita in her dress of green velvet, 
with coachmen and outriders in gorgeous royal scarlet livery, 
rode by. It would not do to give too much weight to this, how- 
ever, for I do not know how much enthusiasm was considered to 
be called for. But in the evening there was an illumination, and 


as five years ago I had seen the annual illuminations in honor of 





Si 


the present Pope’s miracle, when a floor, where he was, having 
given way, and nobody being killed, he took all the credit to him- 
self, I took a cab with a classmate of mine, and we rode about 
the city. I was very forcibly reminded of the difference between 
then and now. Then almost every house and window was illumi- 
nated, now not more than half the houses, and only the lower 
story; and while then there were many ingenious devices and _pic- 
turesque arrangements of lights, nothing of the sort was attempted 
now. ‘To be sure, then there was a despotism, a power felt in 
every man’s house, while now there is a free government, and one 
no longer feels compelled to illuminate for fear of losing favor, and 
so losing all chance of justice or success. I don’t want to insist 
too strongly on such trivial indications, but certainly, if the King 
were enthusiastically popular, it would have found expression on 
so excellent an opportunity. It may be that the King is less 
popular than his cause, for he is a wretched old rake, they say, and 
he certainly has a most unprepossessing phiz. Then again, its 
being Lent was now undoubtedly a damper. 

The third occasion, for which I am looking with some interest 
to-morrow, is the funeral procession in honor of Mazzini, which is 
to carry his bust to be placed among the great men of the country 
in the Capitol. As he was the leader of the Roman republicans in 
°4.9, and is indissolubly associated with the cause of Italian unity, 
I take it that the procession and the spirit in which it is greeted 
will be a fair indication of the popular regard for the latter idea, 
and for liberalism in general. 

But suppose that we take it for granted that the Romans are a 
little sore just now, is it likely that this will have any serious 


effect? I think not. If Rome is discontented with being the 


98 


capital of Italy, Italy is contented, and determined as well to have 
her so. There are no foreign nations to interfere in the Pope’s 
favor. Spain is governed by a prince of the House of Savoy, and 
even if he should be overthrown, is too weak to do anything. 
France has her hands full, with a tottering government and a 
crushing indemnity, while in Austria the ‘old Catholic” move- 
ment, if it has no other influence, would at least paralyze any 
ageressive movement to restore the temporal power, even if the 
government desired a war with Italy, which it undoubtedly does 
not. The discontent of the’ Romans will probably have disap- 
peared before any turn of fortune or public opinion changed the 
position of affairs abroad. . The benefits of good government will 
soon appear, and the middle classes will soon rally around it, and 
then the rest is a matter of time. It does me good to see Italian 
colors waving and Italian troops marching in the streets of Rome, 
though it is a little hard on the Pope’s feelings to establish one of 
the drill-grounds right under his nose, so that he can hardly look 
out of his windows without seeing his own flock being trained 
into stanch warriors of the Antichrist. But enough of Italian 
politics. 

To turn to home matters, I am rather puzzled as to the impor- 
tance and result of the efforts of the liberal republicans against 
Grant. I should hardly think they could succeed in taking from 
him the nomination, but I hope they will be able to get elected a 
knot of independent men in Congress, who, by holding to some 
extent a balance of power, may prevent partisan legislation, such 
as has been our curse since the war. As to the Alabama question, 
which has naturally excited me a great deal, I think the only wise 


and proper course for our government to take is to throw over- 





99 


board, with as little delay and as little noise as possible, all the 
indirect claims which are making such a fuss. On both of these 
points I am quite anxious to know your opinion. 

I suppose you would like to know some of my impressions of 
Rome, and especially that Rome of the past whose language and 
history, we, like all other little boys, used to think so great a bore, 
and now —for I am sure your feeling will echo mine— find so 
much pleasure in. 

I think one’s first feeling must be that of melancholy at the 
base uses our dust may return to. 

The Roman Forum, for centuries the refuse-heap, the garbage- 
pile of the now barbarian city, — what a bitter satire it is! They 
make a salt warehouse of the Coliseum, and tear it half down to 
build an upstart prince’s palace; they pull down a temple to build 
a flight of steps, or even to burn its marble columns for lime. 
Worse than all, having made a bull-ring of the Mausoleum of 
Augustus, where the ashes of the mightiest rulers of the world’s 
history, the Roman Emperors from Augustus to Hadrian, had 
reposed, they let it out to a company of strolling players, who, in 
a little wooden theatre, treat the Romans to Offenbach and the 
Opera Bouffe a la Parisienne. The fate of the Forum was prefer- 
able; at least, it was only material filth there. If “even in our 


2 


ashes live their wonted fires,” it is unpleasant to conceive what 
feelings animate those of Augustus as he hears a low woman and a 
barbarian practising her harlot’s tricks above him. Another im- 
pression which enters deep and remains is that of the enormous 
power and wealth of this imperial city in those old days. After 
loitering for an afternoon in the Coliseum, or among the gigantic 


masses of masonry and stupendous halls of the Baths of Caracalla ; 


100 


after threading the labyrinth of passages and chambers on the 
Palatine; after riding out on the Campagna, and seeing a few of 
the grand lines of arches stretching away to the blue hills in the 
distance, over which the fourteen aqueducts brought water to the 
city; after seeing in all the churches of Rome the wealth of 
precious marbles, such as are found nowhere else in the world, 
and in all the ground about here a still unexhausted quarry, after 
all the stealing; after wandering among a few hundred of the sixty 
thousand statues dug up in Rome and its vicinity, — one can under- 
stand how even the ghost of this departed power gave to the Popes 
an autocracy over Christendom. Such are two of the deepest im- 
pressions forced upon one by a stay in Rome. 

Together with my classmate, Cabot Lodge, I have been reading, 
since I came here, Suetonius’s Lives of the Caesars. They are easy 
Latin, and as a series of character sketches, admirable. You can 
imagine what life they put into the crumbling walls and ruined 
arches about us, thus read on the spot. Especially have they 
interested me in the portraits, busts, and statues, of which there 
are so many in the collection here. While one realizes from a 
recent review of his life that Nero was a blackguard, that Galba 
was an avaricious martinet, that Vitellius was a glutton, that 
Vespasian was a shrewd old soldier, fond of his joke, that Titus 
was a good type of many of the Roman virtues, while his brother 
Domitian was a mean tyrant, — it gives a keen interest as he sees 
these characters so clearly marked in their respective faces. As a 
study of physiognomy these Roman busts are admirable. Julius 
Ceesar’s. face is still a good deal of a mystery to me. We will 
try to unravel it together next year, for I have photographs 
of it. 





101 


Your letter I enjoyed as usual, heartily, though now it is a 
little late to answer it. Don’t be deterred from writing me about 
politics because you think I may have heard the facts before. 
The facts as worked over in one mind always present a different 
aspect from that which the working of another mind gives them, 
and one gets light on an intricate subject like this only by seeing 
it as looked at from different points of view. I have learned, in 
my home letters, of your visit. Mother was sorry to have missed 


it, and will be glad to see you should you have time to call 


I have just returned from the procession. It formed in the 
Piazza del Popoli just before my window, and going down the 
Corso and by several streets, through one end of the Forum, 
passed up the Capitoline Hill into the square of the Campidoglio. 
It was very large, taking a half-hour to pass a given point, and 
was made up of the various societies and trades-unions of Rome, 
each bearing their banner, the whole brought up by a car covered 
with black, and drawn by four white horses, on which there was a 
pedestal with the bust of Mazzini and a figure of Italia, a black 
veil over the head, crowning the bust with a laurel wreath. About 
the car marched twenty or thirty men in black, bearing tablets 
raised on poles, with the names of the heroes in Italy struggling 
for independence, or perhaps of the chief defenders of Rome in 
"4.9, for I confess my knowledge of modern history was not ex- 
tensive enough to tell me which. As the car went along the ladies 
from their balconies, and the throng that lined the streets, showered 
laurel wreaths and flowers upon it till it was completely covered. 
The procession was principally made up of artisans, but there were 


many in it who belonged, I should think, to the class of clerks and 


102 


shopkeepers, and quite a number from the higher ranks of society. 
The streets were crowded, more so than during Carnival, and 
almost every balcony in the Corso was filled, while from every 
house hung an Italian flag with a knot of crape or black lace. 
After following the procession a little while, I took a short cut to 
the Capitol, and got a place on the side of the street, so as to see 
the whole procession again as it wound up the hill. It was very 
impressive to see this cortége in honor of a modern patriot slowly 
ascend that same Clivus Capitolinus which had witnessed the old 
triumphs of the Republic and the Empire. Scipio, Pompey, Cesar, 
and the hundred successful generals of Rome had driven their 
chariots up this slope, and esteemed it the proudest honor that the 
world afforded, and now this honor is lavished on an unsuccessful 
rebel who died in exile. 

I followed the car into the square of the Capitol, now one dense 
throng of people, who covered all the stairways and steps, crowded 
all the windows, and even perched themselves on the shoulders and 
extended limbs of the colossal river-gods before the Palace of the 
Senator. A couple of orators then addressed the people, and were 
received with considerable enthusiasm, and finally the bust was 
taken, amidst the applause of the crowd, from its pedestal, and 
carried reverently into the Palace of the Conservators, to be placed 
among those of the men who had deserved well of their country. 
Now you have the facts. What are the inferences? First, that 
there was a great deal of interest. The procession was very large, 
made up of men from all classes, and the streets and balconies 
along the route were crowded, while the flowers and wreaths 
heaped upon the car were a more delicate testimony to the general 


feeling. Next, that this interest was genuine, for it was not a 





103 


government affair, and there was nothing for a man to gain by 
shamming enthusiasm for Mazzini. Then, that it was, if anything, 
a defiance of the clergy ; for Mazzini, though not an atheist, was far 
from being a Catholic, and it was his party the fear of which 
drove Pius IX. away from Rome, in *49. It was not strange then, 
though it seemed impossible in Rome, to have seen in that im- 
mense crowd only two priests, both of whom were making the 
best of their way out of it. I think it may be taken then as a 
good deal more than a set-off to the Pope’s twenty-five thousand 
of the faithful at St. Peter’s, and as showing that the Romans are 
not, after all, discontented with the present state of things. 
But I have written you an unconscionably long letter, and I will 
therefore close abruptly. Write me when you feel like it, and at 
the same time, if you can, a long political letter, and remember me 


to all common friends. Yours ever, 


INE 2 bias 
To W. S. MacFarLane, Esq. 


Romer, March 17, 1872. 

Dear Moruer, — On Monday, just after sending off your let- 
ter, I received two from you, one the note in answer to my tele- 
gram. My previous letters have told you what I intend to do, — 
stay, hoping to see Vicco in the summer in Germany. It was in- 
deed a great shock to me, but now I am going about learning and 
storing up remembrances of beautiful sights as before. I do not 
think of death, fortunately, from the gloomy side, and though my 
first thought was like an intolerable pang, it now comes over me 
more as a sobering than a saddening influence. When I am alone 
I feel it most, of course. I thank you for your sympathy. ... . 


I was delighted to hear of Will’s success. If he become a phy- 


104 


sician, as I sincerely hope, I think he has a fine career ahead of 
him. He has enormous powers of work, a clear head, and a 
strong will, to which his every passion as his every faculty is sub- 
ordinate, and those qualities are forces which, working along the 
line of a man’s natural development, mean success. 

I am delighted to hear the favorable reports which you and Will 
send me of Anita, poor child. She has had a hard time of it this 
winter. I only hope her recovery may be complete, and not leave 
her an invalid. : 

I am sorry you had so much anxiety on my behalf. Hereafter 
you need have none, for if you receive no letter you may know 
that one has been lost, as, come what may, I will regularly write 
or dictate a letter to you once a week..... 

I have left but little room to tell of myself, and indeed there is 
very little to tell. I made a good many more visits to the Vatican 
the first part of the week, and have settled in my own mind that 
the frescos of the Sistine ceiling are the biggest things in the 
world in the way of painting. Since then I have n’t been doing 
much but wishing to get away from Rome. Iam here alone, my 
classmates are all gone but one, and I feel that every day here is a 
day lost to the pictures, statues, architecture, and scenery of the 
North. However, to-morrow I shall decide to do something, 
which will be a comfort. I shall add a few lines then, and so, 
for the present, good day to everybody, brother and sisters, aunts 
and cousin, relations and friends, says, my dear mother, 


Your loving son, 
Harry. 


P.S. Mr. 8S. has turned up all right, and as well as ever 


again; and so, with trunk packed and shawl strapped for Naples 





105 


to-day, I am to wait over night, and start for Florence to-morrow, 
leaving him in Rome for a week, when he will rejoin me. I shall 
stop on my way, at Perugia and Assisi, and arrive in Florence 
Thursday night, where I shall be with the Amorys and Nat 
Thayer. I suppose you will be glad to learn, as a last word to 
this rather unsatisfactory letter, that I am in a robust state of 
health, and growing perceptibly stouter, though the latter is a 


blow to my vanity. 


FLoRENCcE, March 24, 1872. 

Dear Moruer, — Away from Rome, and only a month more 
in Italy. Such are the main facts just at present. For the last 
few days that I was in Rome I was continually fretting to be away, 
but once away I look back with a great deal of affection for the 
grand old city. It doesn’t take the place of friends; but with a 
pleasant circle about one, it is the most fascinating place to stay in 
that I know of, unless, indeed, I except Paris. 

Perhaps through losing my letters — for I don’t know how many 
may have been lost — you have not heard my plans. They are, to 
see Florence, and then go, by Bologna, Parma, etc., to Milan, and 
then to Paris, by the 25th of April. There I am to meet Cabot 
Lodge, and to start with him for Spain, which is said to be perfect 
in May. Our trip will last about six weeks, and on our return I 
shall strike again into Northern Italy, and try to give Venice a 
fortnight, in June. Beyond that I have not at all decided, and 
my course will depend entirely on circumstances. ... . 

Tuesday morning, then, I left Rome finally, and as I had lost 
four days there by waiting for Mr. S., I concluded, with some 
regret, to give up Terni, much as I had heard its lovely falls 


106 


praised, and went to Perugia. In order to economize a little, I 
had purchased a through ticket to Florence; but it proved an 
expensive economy, for I was obliged to suffer some delay to have 
it indorsed by the station-master, and when I got out the omnibus 
was full. I jumped on the outside, however, and we started off. 
The clouds were very heavy, it soon began to sprinkle, and before 
we were half-way up that mile of hill there burst upon us the 
worst hail-storm that I have seen in Italy. It was nothing serious 
to one who was prepared for it; but when one has a new beaver 
and no umbrella, a shower is rather a severe test to his philosophy. 
However, before dinner my spirits had sufficiently recovered to 
take a walk about the town and a look at the two beautiful views 
which the town commands,—the one to the north, among the 
mountains ; the other southward, down the valley of the Tiber, the 
mountains still remaining as a background. At dinner, whom 
should I meet but Miss Wilby, with Mrs. Clark, her sister, and 
two younger ladies, Miss Weld and Miss Cushing? Miss Wilby 
(who desired to be remembered, particularly to Grace) and Mrs. 
Clark, with the two Misses Crufts, who were also there, were going | 
next day to ride over to Assisi and see the church, and as I had 
proposed to myself to make a solitary pilgrimage to the same spot, 
they invited me to act as their escort,—an invitation which I 
promptly accepted. Wednesday was rather a cloudy day, but we had 
enough sun to get the bright color and deep shadows of Italy every 
now and then, and we did not ‘suffer from the glare which is often, 
you know, oppressive. Our ride of about ten or twelve miles lay 
through the valley of the Upper Tiber, —a plain apparently as fer- 
tile, or I dare say, far more so than our Connecticut Valley, almost 


entirely devoted to vine culture, the vines being trained on dwarf- 





107 


elms, planted in rows, and never allowed to erow more than twelve 
or fifteen feet high. These interminable rows of low trees, planted 
twenty feet apart, form such a striking characteristic of Middle and 
North Italian scenery that I am sure you must recollect them. 
The ride would have been monotonous, particularly as I sat on the 
box, and conversation was about equally difficult with the ladies in 
the carriage and the driver at my side, who, however, guessed at 
the meaning of my barbarous Italian with surprising readiness, but 
the distant mountains were full of beauty and grandeur, and a 
couple of hours was far from exhausting their influence. We 
stopped on the way at an Etruscan tomb, whose dark entrance was 
beautifully draped with the maiden-hair fern, the bright green of 
which made a pleasant relief from the grim old sepulchre. The 
tomb was a chamber cut in the turf, the roof cut to represent 
rafters and a ridge-pole, and quite a number of Medusa heads, 
owls, and architectural ornaments carved also from the living rock. 
Out of this opened several smaller chambers, and at the end far- 
thest from the entrance there was a niche containing several sar- 
cophagi, some very well carved, and all bearing inscriptions in that 
strange Etruscan language which still remains a riddle to the 
scholars. ; 

Assisi is situated on a hill, like almost every small town in 
Italy. Its most picturesque feature is the celebrated Franciscan 
monastery, now suppressed. This is built partly upon large but- 
tresses on the precipitous side of the hill. These form a line of 
immense arches, which, of course, with their deep shadows, and 
the sense they give of human skill and power, are very effective in 
the view. The church of the monastery is unique, for there are 


three churches built one over the other. The lowest is a mere 


108 


crypt chapel over the tomb of St. Francis. The second is really a 
crypt, but the low, wide arch of the vaulted roof, whose effect 
Taine describes admirably when he says that it makes one involun- 
tarily bend the knee, is covered with rich painting as well as the 
walls. Over the nave it is of deep blue (they still show on an 
old tomb the porphyry vase in which the Queen of Cyprus sent 
them the ultramarine to paint it with), with gold stars, and a 
brighter pattern on the ribs, but over the high altar are four fres- 
cos by Giotto, occupying the four triangular divisions of one 
square of the roof. They are far better than the work from which 
Nelly and Martha conceived their disgust of him, and together 
with some frescos of his in Naples, have shown me what a genius 
he was, and what an immense stride he made in advance of his 
masters. These were what I mainly came to see: The upper 
church, Gothic, without aisles, and completely covered with fres- 
cos by Cimabue, Giotto, and his scholars, is a great contrast in its 
brightness and light proportions to the dark and sombre church 
below. Some one has compared the three churches to heaven, 
earth, and hell, — an ingenious and half-warranted bit of fancy. 

Thursday morning I explored Perugia. It is a charming place, 
as picturesque a spot as I have seen in Italy, and perhaps in 
Europe, with its narrow streets, sharp angles, steep hills, and 
especially its remains of the Middle Ages, the arches which cross 
the streets, the high towers, the richly carved doorways, the 
palaces with their Gothic windows and arcades, and, in a word, — 
to end in a bathos,——the whole thing. 

In the afternoon I started for Florence, where I arrived just 
too late for ¢able d’héte, and after installing myself in my new 
quarters went down to see the Amorys and Nat Thayer, whom 


I was very glad to meet again after my week alone. 





109 


Friday, sight-seeing, of course. First to Santa Maria Novella, 
the outside of which was very familiar to me, but the interior 
quite new. So we examined the frescos, remarked how much 
superior Ghirlandajo was to Filippino Lippi, climbed up a 
ladder to catch a sight of Cimabue’s great Madonna, — which we 
decided was better than the Byzantine ones, though that was n’t 
saying very much, — looked at the frescos of Orcagna, of Taddeo 
Gaddi, and of Simone Memmi, and finally “did” the church, 
though I am going there again. Then we went to the Uffizzi, 
which seemed like an old friend. As it was my first visit, I 
went through the whole gallery to get a general idea of it. I 
was much impressed, but will say no more about it, as I should 
require several volumes, with an appendix of plates, to say what 
I want to. The afternoon I gave to rest, being a little tired. 

Saturday, sight-seeing again. First to the Academy of Fine 
Arts, which you probably remember. There are several Peru- 
ginos there, and lots of the older masters, and those two re- 
markable portraits, Carlo Dolci’s of Fra Angelico, and the Savo- 
narola of Fra Bartolommeo. Then to the Palazzo del Podesta, 
where we saw the old armor and the antiquities and quite a 
number of bronzes, especially John of Bologna’s Mercury, who 
balances himself so lightly on one foot upon the breath of the 
north-wind. The afternoon I rested as usual, reading Roscoe’s 
Lorenzi de Medici, a rather heavy history of an intensely inter- 
esting time. To-day, after church, I began this letter to you, 
but was interrupted by the waiter, who brought me the card of 
J. 8. Lawrence, the classmate I met so accidentally at Dresden. 
I went immediately up to his room, and spent the rest of the 
afternoon there, for I found he had been in the hotel sick three 


days without my knowing it..... Harry. 


110 


The insidious Roman malaria had already penetrated his 
system when this last letter was penned. His complaints 
of headache, and then a wet ride at Perugia, were the sim- 
plest accidents to befall a tourist; but now they appear 
what they surely were, evil precursors of the approaching — 
ilmess. How slight a thread winds back to the hidden 
cause, and suddenly draws the great mystery of Divine 
will into the feeble light of our finite understanding! It was 
to be, and in those four little words le the grief and joy, 
the despair and resignation, of many a broken household. 

Miss Wilby, one of the ladies mentioned in the above 
letter, wrote some weeks later of their meeting at Peru- 
gia. 

“T should not have known him if he had not come to me and 
pleasantly introduced himself. We had a little talk, and I asked 
what he meant to do the next day. ‘I am going to Assisi,’ 
was his reply. I then asked him to join us, as we were also 
going, which he seemed glad to do. We had a charming day 
together, and I was delighted with the thoughtfulness, the great 
amount of information, and the entire modesty which he showed ; 
we all spoke of it. I remember one little incident particularly. 
One of us asked what kind of tree it was that was kept so 
closely cut to train the vines upon. ‘It is the elm,’ he said; 
and then after a moment continued, ‘ Horace lamented that the 
rich men of his time should plant the plane-tree to ornament 
their gardens instead of the elm, as the plane-tree was a bache- 
lor, while the elm was wedded to the vine.’ And so he had 


constantly some pleasant addition to make to the general fund 





111 


of talk. He was very much interested in the old frescos of the 
church of St. Francis, and studied them carefully, Kiigler in 
hand. The morning after I went off early and did not see him 


again. He left at noon for Florence.” 


The rainy week following his arrival in Florence he com- 
plained of chillness and headache, and nursed himself for 
a slight cold; but it did not prevent his driving about 
sight-seemg with a party of friends who had been with him 
in Rome. There was no other warning of danger, no pre- 
sentiment that in ten brief days the happiness in so many 
hearts would be dimmed because those pure eyes were 
closed forever on earth, and on that strong, young breast 
the flowers of Florence were lying. Who can tell what 
premonitions had shadowed the previous weeks, when deep 
anxiety for a dear friend’s life had hastened his return to 
Rome? Vigorous, light-hearted as he was, and flushed 
with exciting fatigues of travel, the sad news from America 
visibly affected him; and though not given to brooding 
over the inevitable, as he had written his mother, he drifted 
naturally into the serious aspects of the hour, with its con- 
sequences to himself as well as to others. Harry’s trav- 
ellng companion, Mr. C. W. Sanderson, writes home at the 
time (February 26, 1872), regarding the proposed return 


to America, and in conclusion says : — 


“While on our return by rail from Pestum, I found myself 
so used up that I left the rest of the party and took a seat 


alone in another compartment. Upon reaching.La Cava Harry 


112 


also left the others and came into my compartment and sat with 
me. His mind seemed greatly troubled about the critical con- 
dition of the Baron, and in course of conversation he spoke very 
freely on the subject of death and a future state, so much so 
that I was more than ordinarily impressed. In speaking of his 
hope of heaven, he said that, notwithstanding his former doubts 
and forebodings, he had gotten above them all, and that he had 
the most implicit faith in Christ and the atonement, and that 
he had no fears of death, but was ready to 20 hence whenever 
God saw fit to call him. I begged him to cease talking on the 
‘subject, for it depressed me sadly; and I even asked him why 
he spoke in such a strain, but to this he gave no direct reply. 
There was a time last autumn when Harry had the most unde- 
sirable influences around him, and I felt no little anxiety about 
his speculative state of mind. But surely he is now firm in 
the faith, and shows a most remarkable spiritual development 
during the last few months. As he said, ‘There was no rest 
for my soul as long as I dwelt upon speculative theories and a 
disbelief of the Holy Scriptures. I feel now that my faith can 
never be shaken again, for I vow in whom I believe.’ Harry’s 
example is worth more than a volume of sermons, and in all 
my life I have never seen any one who combined so much 
purity and goodness with such strength of character and high 


intellectual attainments.” 


There was nothing morbid in Harry’s temperament, and 
this conversation is now recalled from no desire to cloud 
sunny recollections of his sunny life, but rather that we 


may gather up those last days and take into our own keep- 








113 


ing what was so lovable in them, and so indicative of the 
supremely trusting nature standing alone and unconscious 
at the threshold of another world. 

- But disease was progressing day by day, and the symp- 
toms of a treacherous typhoid-fever began to assume a 
complicated form. It was on the first of April, however, 
before Harry had fairly taken to his bed, that he sent a 
letter in pencil to his mother. When he came to the super- 
scription his strength almost failed, and he said to a young 
friend who was with him that he feared the sight of his shaky 
hand would alarm her, but a stranger’s would certainly 
do so; and he made another great effort and accomplished 
the task with no little satisfaction to himself. These pen- 
cilled lines were the last he ever wrote, the very last expres- 
sions of love for the dear mother to whom he had always 
clung with a sweet and filial devotion, with that rare sym- 
pathy which had made their union of one-and-twenty years 
an unbroken joy. 


This letter reached Boston when all was over. 


Frorence, April 1, 1872. 

Dear Motuer,—I have n’t much to tell you of during the 
past week, for it has been very rainy and dark, the churches and 
galleries have been, the ones full of worshippers, the others closed, 
and then, too, the last of the week I have been lying by recruiting, 
for I found I had got quite run down by my vigorous sight- 
seeing. On Monday we went to the Pitti, after visiting the 
studios of Fedi, Ball, and Powers. I was rather disappointed 


114 


with Mr. Powers’s studio, but enjoyed Mr. Ball’s very much. He 
has a delicacy of fun and a truth to nature in some statues of little 
girls, which is admirable, while in a statue of Governor Andrew, 
which stands in the State House, I believe he has expressed a 
great deal of dignity. The Pitti I saw, but that was about all, for 
I was tired, and though the rooms looked very familiar with the 
old pictures, I felt Frank’s impulse to go for a chair. Since then, 
I have n’t seen very much. Thursday I drove out to San Miniato, 
where there ’s that view of Firenza la Bella, and where has just 
been constructed a magnificent drive-way. Tuesday, by the way, I 
was invited to dine, by Mr. Appleton, but declined, as I was not 
feeling well enough. Finding myself getting no better, I put my- 
self under the care of a physician, who says that [ have no serious 


trouble, and am improving daily. As my head aches a good deal, 


I am going to ask you to excuse a longer letter to-day. Next 


week more at length from 
Your affectionate son 
HARRY. 


P. 8. I write in pencil, for my ink is down stairs. 


- Fortunately, durmg that short but terrible illness, Harry 
did not realize his peril. At first he was chiefly concerned at 
giving any trouble to his friends, and then, that he might get 
well as speedily as possible so as to fill out the Italian jour- 
ney, and start for Spain by the 24th of Apnil. Friends clus- 
tered around him in this trying hour, and their tender care 
palliated many of the discomforts of a foreign hotel. When 
his condition grew alarming, they watched day and night, 


using every human means to save him, but all in vain. 


4 





115 


‘ 


Dearly attached to him for his own sake, their anxiety was 
painfully enhanced by the thought of the greater anxiety in 
that home thousands of miles away, and what cruel suspense 
must be the portion of father, mother, sisters, and brother, as 
they waited for those daily bulletins that might tell them of 
the worst. It seemed impossible that Harry, with his strong 
constitution, should not rally. So robust, so full of joyous, 
healthful spirits, and with everything to live for, how could 
he die! Was it time that the mpening youth, that fresh 
manhood, should be gathered into the great harvest? And 
hoping against hope, we believed the time had not come, and 
that the dear boy would be passed by. But no, the thunder- 
bolt fell upon us as from a clear sky. In the early morning 
of the 12th of April, Harry Simpson left a world that had 
been the brighter for his coming, and must have been the 
better had his life been spared. 

The history of those ten sad days are fully told in the fol- 


lowing letter. 


LETTER FROM Rev. Mr. A. LAWRENCE. 


Venicg, April 26, 1872. 


My pEaRr Mrs. Simpson, — Kind hands have already written 





you so many letters in regard to your son’s sickness and death 
that I feel I ought to apologize for adding another to the number. 
I am unwilling, needlessly, to open afresh those dreadful wounds ; 
and the consciousness that they are altogether beyond my reach, 


and I can do nothing to heal or relieve them, makes me shrink 


116 


from addressing you. But Mr. Sanderson wished me to do it, 
and Mrs. Lawrence also tells me I ought to write you. But I do 
not write to comfort you. That would be an intrusion, and I leave 
it to those whose long acquaintance and tried friendship give them 
a right, if any human lips have the right, to offer consolation in so 
unspeakably great an agony. The depths of your sorrow I cannot 
sound, for much as I have myself sorrowed in life, I never yet 
loved, rejoiced in, and lost such a son. 

When all, who had only casually met him, were drawn to, and 
loved him, I know how intensely she must have yearned over him 
who has known him through all these years, watched his develop- 
ment, whose sympathies with her noble son led her to understand 
him, whose tastes were like his, who had given him birth, — his 
mother. Since he left us on that dark morning I have seen and 
heard from a great number of persons, some of whom had known 
Harry for years, and others who had met him for the first time on 
this last European journey, and all speak of him in terms only of 
respect and admiration. Every one, too, loved him. It is not 
often the case that one so gifted as he was is so universally loved. 
The very gifts that are admired are oftentimes envied, and rivals 
have no love to throw away upon each other. But your son had 
so noble and generous a nature, he.was so manly, so unselfish, so 
considerate of others, that even his rivals loved him, and some of 
them knew and felt that he voluntarily resigned to them the place 
that he might easily have claimed for himself. One of. his class- 
mates has said since his death, ‘‘ He was the most unselfish person 
I ever knew.” Others have borne similar testimony, and all speak 
of him as among the foremost, if not the very first, of his large and 


able class. Indeed, I have never met with a case that better justi- 








117 
fies the lines of the poet, said of another who fell, like Harry, in his 


early prime: — 
- “None knew him but to love him, 


None named him but to praise.” 


It was easy to serve such a person, and to his classmates, 
Amory and Thayer and Lawrence, who were with him, it was evi- 
dently a work of love to minister to him; and the messages 
that came from Lodge and Munroe showed how earnestly they 
longed to share in ministrations to one so admired and loved. 

We arrived at Florence (from Perugia) on Saturday evening, 
April 6. Mr. Sanderson accompanied us from Rome, where 
Harry had left him. He had not been well there, was working 
beyond his strength, and your son had his trunk packed to go 
to him from Florence and was only prevented from doing so by 
receiving from Mr. S. more favorable news. Mr. S. was in 
the doctor’s hands at Rome, nor did he know more of Harry’s 
state than that he “had not been very well.” We were very 
much shocked, therefore, when on Sunday Mr. 8. came into 
our room while we were at dinner and reported your son as 
“down sick with fever.’ Mr. 8. had taken rooms with us, 
but at once began packing up to go and occupy a room next to 
Harry’s, which he had kept for him since the previous Thursday, 
I went immediately with Mr. Sanderson to the doctor who was 
attending your son, that we might learn from him what he thought 
of the case, that we might act accordingly. He told us the 
case was a simple one, that Harry was doing well, was going 
through a course of fever that had been hanging about him for 
three weeks or more, and that unless some complication occurred 


there was no occasion for alarm. Knowing well how much was 


/ 


118 


at stake, I sought to find out Dr. Wilson’s reputation for skill 
and faithfulness, and in all directions met with only one testi- 
mony, tersely expressed by an American banker from Philadel- 
phia who had been many years in Florence, — ‘‘ He is worth all 
the other Florentine physicians put together.” He told me he 
had been twenty-five years in Florence, and had had from twenty 
to thirty cases of this Roman fever every spring since he began 
practice there. Our interview with him was at 3 p. mM. of Sun- 
day, at which time I had not seen Harry. Two hours later 
the doctor found Harry worse; he was breathing hard, pneu- 
monia had complicated with the fever, and Dr. W. was alarmed. 
In the morning he directed Mr. Sanderson to telegraph you his 
danger. Mr. 8S. was so feeble and so agitated by Harry’s peril 
that he was wholly unfitted for the sick-room, and, indeed, had 
himself to return to our rooms and to the doctor’s care. His 
place was taken by another of Harry’s friends, who was only 
too glad to be of service to him, and who did not leave him 
till all was over. Mr. Amory, also, had been summoned back 
from Venice at his own request by young Lawrence, and reached 
-Harry’s hotel on Monday evening. At noon on Monday I asked 
Dr. Wilson to call to his aid any and every counsel that could 
by possibility be of service, for that I knew you would wish 
everything to be done that could be to subdue the disease and 
save the dear boy from his peril. He brought in Professor 
Fallani, who saw him a few hours after, and who came with 
Dr. W. each day thereafter till Harry died. He is a venerable 
gray-haired man of fifty-five or sixty, and stands high in the 
medical school, of which he is a professor. Dr. W. and the nurse 


had been engaged before we came, I believe by Mr. Appleton. 





iO 


The nurse proved kind, judicious, watchful, and experienced. 
Harry’s room was an extra large one on the fifth story fronting 
on the Arno, and high enough to be airy and quiet. The en- 
tire floor, moreover, was occupied by his friends, Mr. Amory, 
Thayer, and Lawrence, and one room retained for Sanderson, 
so that there was no risk of disturbance from unknowing, un- 
sympathizing strangers. We especially rejoiced in this for 
Harry’s sake, for the Prince of Wales and party, and the Duke 
of Nassau and party were in the hotel and rendered the house 
more than usually lable to parade, noise, and bustle. But you 
may rest quite assured that the dear boy suffered nothing from 
this source, and that everything was ordered for him kindly as 
could be for one who must meet the great struggle away from 
home and far from sisters and mother. Mr. Amory proved 
himself most unweariedly kind, and only left the room for the 
most urgent necessities from Monday night till the morning of 
Friday. He and Mrs. Amory and Miss Hoppin and young 
Thayer hastened back from Venice (where they had been only 
one day), that they might in some imperfect way supply by 
their care the absence of parents and sisters. They will have 
won your heart, I know, as they have ours, by this unselfish 
devotion to your son in his great need. It has been, too, a 
new illustration of the Lord’s care of his own that these friends 
should thus have clustered around the dear one for whom you 
were praying at home. True they could not save him (“for 
the dear Lord had need of him” elsewhere), but they did all 
that unwearied kindness and watching could do to save him, 
and, failing this, to mitigate the sufferings of the struggle. 


You will ask, I know, if Harry was conscious of his peril, 


120 


or supposed that he was about to die. Not because you can 
feel any solicitude about your dear son’s readiness, for to all 
such solicitude his (fe was and is a sufficient answer. Every- 
body who knew him felt that he was very good, and the evi- 
dence of his union to the Lord, and the hope that he has gone 
to be forever with him, could not be strengthened by pages of 
“last words.” Still your heart will ask the question, * Was he 
conscious ?”’ because you will long for some message of love and 
tenderness from the dear lips that you had so often pressed with 
your own, and that have so often before spoken words of love 
to you in your presence and prayed for you when absent. But 
from the time I saw him until his death Harry was not him- 
self. He knew his friends and called them by name, and was 
thus in a degree conscious, and oftentimes during those dark 
days there seemed to hover about his mind a shadow of the 
coming end. He occasionally made remarks that revealed 
thoughts of death as approaching to him; as when he said on 
Wednesday night to his classmate Amory, “ Frank, if I should 
die to-night I want you to see all my debts paid, and make 
this old woman comfortable.” On another occasion earlier in 
the same day, he said to another of his friends sitting by him, 
“ Doctor,” mistaking him for his physician, — “ Doctor, I prom- 
ised my mother when I left home that I would write her a 
letter every week while | was gone; now if I get worse I want 
you to sée it done, will you?” . “Yes, 1: will" *Dineaaas 
her at No. 6 Ashburton Place, Boston.” It was on this day, 
Wednesday, at noon, that the faces of the doctors brightened 
when they saw him, for his symptoms all seemed better, and 


they allowed me (or rather bade me) telegraph to you ‘‘a slight 


/ 





121 


improvement since yesterday.” We-hoped with trembling. Mrs. 
L. clung to hope all along, for it seemed to her that “ Harry 
could not be spared.” But the sky was soon darkened again, 
the bad symptoms all returned, and our heavy hearts were all 
the heavier for having been for one bright hour relieved. Though 
Harry was not himself, there was one respect in which he was 
always himself. His habitual kindness, politeness, considera- 
tion of others, clung to him even in delirium. His medicine 
was odious to him, especially as the doctor required that it 
should be given very often. We had sometimes to reason with 
him. “Please take it, Harry, you know we want you to get 
well, and we only want to help you.” ‘You do help me. [ 
wish I could tell you how much I love you for all you are 
doing for me.” At one time he wanted to get into another 
bed that stood near; he was so uncomfortable in that one. 
“O no! I think I would n’t, Harry, you will expose yourself.” 
“ All right; I give up to you.” But shortly after the desire 
was again expressed. “I must get into that bed.” “But I 
am sure the doctor would n’t like it.”  ‘O, I have had sev- 
eral doctors tell me I must n’t, but I have a mind of my own 
on the matter.” ‘But that bed is very cold.”” ‘No matter, 
it is for my benefit, and I must insist upon it,” at the same 
time rising up in his bed. ‘But, Harry, I know your mother 
would n’t like it.” ‘‘ Well, — yes, —I consent.” 

The next day, Thursday, when his speech had become inar- 
ticulate and it was very difficult to understand any of his words, 
his hands and eyes were raised as if in prayer; but the lips 
that had known so well how to speak and had so often spoken 


eloquently now refused their office, and only the Omniscient 


122 


Father could know what was passing in that appealing soul. 
We heard his voice for some minutes, but only God knew 
what of petition or adoration those words expressed. I thought 
then of the hymn we have so often sung, — 
“Then in a nobler, sweeter song 
I ’ll sing thy power to save, 
When this poor sping, stammering tongue 

Lies silent in the grave.” 
I thought of the bitterness that would come to us, of the glory 
that was dawning on him. At eleven o’clock that night I left 
him with two young friends (graduates of Harvard, *69, Mr. 
Fox and Mr. Morley of Newburyport), and when after a few 
hours’ sleep I returned at six in the morning, he had passed 
away; and I took my sad way to the office to send the news 
to you. 

It will be soothing to you to know how tenderly and rever- 
ently he was attended to his burial. The little chapel at the 
English cemetery was much more than filled by sympathizing 
Americans, including many from Boston,. and the coffin that 
held your son was literally covered with choice sweet flowers. 
These will all go with him on his long journey across the 
ocean, —a testimonial, though withered and faded, of the love 
that followed him to the last. One of the crosses was from 
Miss Hoppin, another from Mrs. Charles Sumner, etc. The 
funeral service was at 4 P.M. of Saturday, and was attended 
by Dr. Van Nest of the American Chapel at Florence, and Dr. 
A. C. Thompson of Roxbury. It was simple, but to me deeply 
impressive. We regretted, when it was quite too late, that we 


had not sent you the hour, that you might have joined with us 





123 


in the solemnities. They were made to us the more impressive 
by the fact that the bodies of two other young men were lying 
in the chapel at the same hour, awaiting removal to aching 
hearts in America, — young Swain of the class of 69, who had 
died on the Ist of April, and Smith of Providence, who died 
on the 10th, both at Florence. 

On the morning that Harry died Mr. Sanderson sent a de- 
spatch to Milan for young Hodges, hoping that for your sake 
he might be present at the funeral. He had known you all so 
intimately, and loved Harry so much, it seemed to Mr. S. that 
he must be present. In the evening he received a despatch 
from the American Consul at Milan that ‘Hodges died of 
typhoid-fever”’ the evening before. Can you judge of the 
shock to us all, but especially to Mr. Sanderson, who was still 
very feeble? It had been a great trial to him that he could 
not be with Harry during his sickness, and could do nothing 
after his death. But he required careful nursing himself, and 
only by this was he saved from the worst forms of the fever. 

I am afraid I have both wearied and pained you, my dear Mrs. 
Simpson, by this long letter and its minuteness of detail. But 
in writing it my only guide has been what I would myself 
wish in similar circumstances, and I know you will pardon me 
if I have erred. I may hope to see you on our return, or Mrs. 
Lawrence will, to mingle her tears with yours, and talk with 
you of the dear one who has so early gone to his reward. 
Meantime my earnest prayer is, and has daily been, that God 
will sustain you in this great sorrow, and that the dear Lord, 
who himself so suffered in achieving our redemption, will sym- 
pathize with you in your agony, and put underneath you his 


loving arms. 


124 


We are all grieved that the precious remains must be so long 
in reaching you. But we saw no possible way of preventing 
it. The trying forms of Italian law forbade its earlier depar- 
ture from Florence, and the risks of delay — detention at dif- 
ferent frontiers and stations — forbade sending by express to a 
French or German port. It will not leave Leghorn until Sun- 
day next, the 28th, and I am unable to learn how many days 
are usually occupied in the voyage from thence to New York. 
Be assured, my dear Mrs. Simpson, we have done all we could 
to meet the desires of those who wait at home in an agony of 
suspense for all that remains of one so dearly, deeply, ten- 
derly loved. The dear face looked very natural on the morn- 
ing after the great strife was over,—as Amory said, “ very 
beautiful.’ The next morning, when I went to the little 
chapel and stood before it all alone, I found it somewhat 
changed, and the process of embalming had distended a little 
unnaturally the features. I took the enclosed lock of hair at 
that time to send to you. I do not know but I might have hesi- 
tated to do it, had it not been suggested by dear Mrs. Amory. 

May I say for Mrs. Lawrence that she has twice, perhaps more, 
commenced letters to you, but found herself unequal to the painful 
task. Perhaps at some future day, when the great sorrow shall 
have been mellowed by time, and all hearts have learned to bear it, 
she may then be able to tell you how deeply she sympathized with 
you in the dread experience of these days. Beautiful Florence ! 
henceforth to us it will be covered with a pall of gloom. Nothing 
can ever remove the cloud that settled down and shrouded it 
through that five days of awful suspense and suffering. 

In Christian sympathy, yours ever, 
Amos EH. LAWRENCE. 





125 


Three years have passed away since Harry was laid at 
rest in Mt. Auburn. 
It was a fair, sweet day in June when 
* All the land in flowery squares 


Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind 


Smelt of the coming summer,”’ 


that brought him home. ‘The strange truth, that distance 
had robbed of half its reality, suddenly thrilled through 
every heart gathered about that peaceful grave, and then, 
only then, could we understand that he was dead! But 
when the fresh dew-stained flowers mingled their fragrance 
with the faded Florence tributes still resting on his coffin, 
and the sacred ground responded to that mortal cry of “ dust 
to dust!’? we knew this saddest of welcomes was, indeed, 
the final farewell on earth. 

That day Harry Simpson bequeathed a spotless memory to 
all who had loved and honored him in life. It was no color- 
less record of a faultless life, to be wept and then forgotten, 
but that of a strong individuality, of a rarely adjusted nature, 
—a nature so human it never failed to sympathize with hu- 
manity, so pure it repelled stam, so.generous it constantly 
expanded with the broad charity of the willing giver, and so 
stimulating it aroused noble desires in less ardent, less 
thoughtful souls, by its warm and unselfish example.  Per- 
haps the keynote of his character is touched in a remark he 
once made to his mother, when he had been deeply moved by 


a misunderstanding with a dear friend, “ As unhappy as I am, 


126 


in having wounded the feelings of another, it is as nothing 
compared to my grief at having displeased my Maker.” 
And his whole existence was tuned in harmony with this 
conscientious outburst. 

The most cherished sentiment of Harry’s heart was un- 
doubtedly the beautiful love he bore his mother. Almost 
perfect unanimity of thought, and a perfect sympathy with 
each other’s tastes, had created an exquisitely tender bond 
between them. It was one of those rare unions, combining 
the intimate confidences of friendship and a deep maternal 
solicitude, which is so sure to leave an indelible impression 
on the future of the man. It was to his mother that he 
nightly confided his childish hopes, his boyish experiences ; 
it was to her his innermost thoughts were told, and it was 
through her influence and guidance that he retained the spot- 
less purity of childhood when he began to learn the perilous 
ways of a great world. His chivalrous devotion to her was 
certainly one of the most marked traits in his character. 
From his earliest years he had enshrined filial duty, as if it 
had been a priceless gem, in the recesses of his heart. Those 
lovely qualities that he inherited from her were returned 
tenfold, and, beg what he was, he paid the noblest tribute 
a son can ever pay his mother for her devoted love and 
constant. prayers. 

Harry was keenly appreciative of the advantages and the 
sweet influences surrounding him at home. He often said 
that he did not believe a happier boy existed, or one who 





127 


had a more delightful home. But then, it can be said in 
return, that no boy ever made himself more beloved, or was 
so much to those he loved, as Harry. Practical and_ self- 
reliant, he very soon assumed the responsibilities of the elder 
son, and while other boys would have been thinking only of 
their games or books, he was ready to suggest and to devise 
pleasant plans for-the family’s enjoyment, or he would arrange 
all the details of a long journey with a business tact that loft 
no anxiety in the minds of those personally interested in its 
success. As he grew to man’s estate, and his character 
asserted itself with yet greater force, he became the very 
centre of the household, where all regarded him as their 
companion, their guide, and the inspirer of everything bright 
and good among them. If he was the perfect son and 
brother, he was as truly a thorough friend; firm and un- 
swerving mm his loyalty, magnetic in his sympathetic bearing. 
One could not ask more, or believe more of friendship, than 
was generously accorded when he had once taken you by the 
hand. 

The numerous testimonials that have been written by his 
classmates to aid in the arrangement of this brief sketch are 
singularly unanimous in their expressions of appreciation of 
his lovable traits of heart and mind. Whether the writers 
called him their personal friend, or had known him merely 
as a college acquaintance, they one and all speak with an 
affectionate warmth that is as manly as it is sincere and pure. 


These letters, fraught with so much honest feeling, have 


128 


. 


formed the groundwork of this little volume; they speak in 
every line, and side by side with those written by Harry’s 
own hand during that closing, fruitful year :— 


“Alas! that all we loved of him should be 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
And grief itself be mortal! 


He has outsoared the shadow of our might; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not, and torture not again; 
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 


A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain.” 





ibd ipa Dia ccd hid atte 


| numerous letters of sympathy and condolence that 
were received by Harry’s family during those sorrowful 
days should find their place in this record of his life; but 
a few must represent the many. The selection has been 
made with the one hope that a stronger, if not a newer 
light may rest upon the sweet young character by means 


of their preservation here. 
Frorence, April 12, 1872. 


Dear Mrs. Simpson, — Although at this moment of anguish . 
and affliction I do not attempt to offer you one word of con- 
solation, I venture to hope that a few lines giving you some 
details of the last illness of your son may not prove unproduc- 
tive of comfort. During several weeks in Rome this winter, 
and again for a few days since we have been in Florence, we 
have had the pleasure of a most intimate acquaintance, and you 
will readily understand, therefore, the interest we have taken, 
and the friendship we have felt. 

He arrived from Rome the latter part of March, and seemed 
at that time in health, although he confessed to having felt 


slightly unwell during a few days previously. On Monday, the 


130 


25th, he accompanied us to several churches, galleries, etc., and 
when we assembled in my parlor for lunch he appeared in good 
spirits. After dinner I observed that he did not employ him- 
self with his book as usual, but sat by the fire and at ten 
o’clock retired, promising to join us at dinner at Mr. C. H. 
Appleton’s, a relative and friend of my own, the following day. 
The next morning, however, he complained of a headache, and 
remained in his bedroom. The headache increased, but not so 
much as to require other assistance than the companionship of 
his classmates, Messrs. Thayer and Lawrence, and my son, which 
he had constantly during the days we remained in Florence, 
with also a physician’s attendance. Dr. Wilson is an English 
practitioner of great skill and reputation, and treated him for 
Roman fever, but was by no means alarmed af his situation. 
On Thursday we left for Venice with the understanding that, if 
required, my son would return to Florence on the receipt of a 
telegram. After our departure Mr. Appleton visited him in his 
room and thought a nurse necessary, as he was apparently 
averse to making much effort. He supplied one who had the 
advantage of speaking English. On Sunday we received from 
young Lawrence the telegram that the symptoms were very 
alarming, having the nature of typhoid, and that his disease 
was not altogether the Roman fever, as we supposed, — that the 
physicians feared congestion of the lungs. On Monday we re- 
turned to Florence, and from that time the constant attention 
of Mr. Lawrence, —a clergyman, with whom I believe you are 
acquainted, — assisted by my son, his classmate and friend, has 
been unremitting. Mr. Lawrence has rarely left him for many 


hours either by night or day. My son has occupied the next 


131 


room to him, with myself and cousin adjoining, and young 
Lawrence the other side; so that the whole floor has been 
under the management of his friends. The nurse has proved 
very good, the physician most attentive, always paying him four 
visits for the last few days, and often returning if occasion 
required. On Wednesday night, while my son was with him 
he appeared quite himself for a time, but soon delirium pre- 
vented all recognition, consequently he was spared all knowl- 
edge of his suffering or of his dangerous condition, which I 
trust may in time give you consolation. The congestion of the 
lungs produced great difficulty of breathing, spasms, and ten- 
dency of blood to the brain; but the restlessness induced by 
it was afflicting only to his friends, as he was not aware of 
it. 

On Thursday large doses of chloral were administered to 
induce sleep, which seemed for an hour or two to reduce the 
uneasy restlessness, and he slept for some time. The physi- 
cian had at that time the belief that this refreshment would 
produce a beneficial change, and pronounced his condition not 
entirely hopeless. At about twelve o’clock, however, he seemed 
more desponding, and gave it as his opinion that the result 
would be a question of ¢ime only, and at half past five o’clock 
your son quietly and calmly passed from this world. My son 
was at his side, and two young gentlemen, graduates of Har- 
vard, Messrs. Fox and Moseley, passed also the night in the 
room. 

On this occasion, so melancholy and so solemn, dear Mrs. 
Simpson, I can offer you the sympathy of a mother’s heart, ren- 


dered very sincere by the amiable manners and excellent dis- 


132 


position and character of one most highly valued and truly 
regretted by a large circle of friends. I must hope that the 
knowledge that your son has received all the care and atten- 
tion that were possible, and that many gentlemen were kind 
and considerate in their offers of service, will relieve you from 
the fear that he might have suffered without suitable assistance. 
I think everything has been done in the most judicious man- 
ner by Mr. Lawrence’s advice, and under the sanction of his 
constant presence. 

I must add my entire appreciation of your affliction at this 
heavy loss, and my hope that time with its beneficial influence 
may help you to bear it. I need not enlarge upon the esti- 
mable qualities and fine character we so much loved and admired, 
but entreat you to remember that God’s will is best for us. 


With sincere sympathy, 
Anna L. Amory. 


Paris, April 12, 1872. 


Dear Mrs. Simpson,—TI do not know that you will more 
than recognize my name, but at this moment, overwhelmed as I 
am by the terrible news of Harry’s death, which reached me this 
morning, I feel that I can get relief only by sitting down and 
trying to tell you how I loved him, and clung ‘to his friendship, 
and I know from sad experience that at such a time even the 
poorest expression of sympathy is welcome. 

The tears come to my eyes as I think of him,,and I so little 
realize the sad reality that I hardly can find any words to teli all 
that is in my heart to say. 

I had no idea of his sickness until day before yesterday, by a 


133 


letter from my chum, Amory; and my first impulse was to go at 
once to Florence, but my wife’s recent confinement and the doc- 
tor’s unhesitating prohibition kept me here, and I should have 
got there too late. It is the strongest light of friendship ever 
given to me that has gone out of my life, and the path that we 
had traced together looks very dark to me now. 

I cannot speak to you, his mother, of his brilliant talents and 
noble character, and I can only try to show you that I appre- 
ciated and loved him. Such a life gone is a great, irreparable 
loss to his home and country, for he was one of those vigorous, 
able, truthful souls that we want so sorely in our new world, and 
in the efforts to help humanity. I cannot say on paper what I 
want, and am very incoherent, but I trust to seeing you when I 
return, and the lips may say what the pen cannot. My wife just 
called me to her bedside, and I cannot do other than repeat her 
words: “Try to tell Mrs. Simpson how I feel for her and 
sympathize with her.” I cannot write any words of comfort, — I 


can only say, God bless and help you now and always. 
H. C. Lopes. 


Paris, April 12, 1872. 

Dear Mrs. Stmpson,—I cannot keep from writing to you 
and expressing my deep sympathy with you and your family 
in your present sudden and terrible bereavement. I knew your 
son well; an acquaintance, a friendship, of four years’ standing 
in college and of close intimacy with him while here in Paris 
had taught me to love him as a true friend. His death was a 
terrible shock to the few of us who were here, and he will be 


mourned and lamented by all his innumerable friends. 


134 


Acknowledged by all in college with him to be their ablest 
scholar, I know of no one who was more universally liked and 
beloved than he. We are as yet, of course, without particulars 
here of the sad event, but are waiting for further news this 
afternoon. Rest assured that he was surrounded by kind friends, 
and that, though so far away from home, all was done for 
him that ‘could be. The first intimation we received of his 
being seriously ill was in a letter from Frank Amory to Cabot : 
Lodge, dated Venice, last Saturday. On its receipt Lodge, 
although he was leaving behind him a sick wife and a baby 
only five days old, spared! no effort in trying to leave for 
Florence, and was only prevented from doing so by the doc- 
tor’s express orders that he should not leave his wife in her 
present condition. All that can be done here for our dear 
friend we shall only be too thankful to do. 

Again expressing my deep sympathy in your sudden loss, I 
remain, with much respect, Yours sincerely, 

JoHN MUNROE. 


Frorence, April 14, 1872. 

Dear Mr. anp Mrs. Simpson, —This place and date are 
a sufficient apology for any one, though a stranger, addressing 
you. I have not had the pleasure of an acquaintance with 
yourselves, nor yet with your son so recently deceased; still 
the event which has so severely bereaved you, together with the 
funeral service of yesterday, do not leave me unacquainted with 
him, nor with your own grief. I cannot refrain from tender- 
ing my sympathy. Mrs. Thompson, who also stood beside 
those cherished remains in the cemetery chapel, joins me in 


the expression of tender Christian regards. 


135 


It was at the request of Dr. Van Nest that I read a selection 
of Scriptures. You may like to be able to refer to them. 
They were as follows: Job xiv. 1-12; Isaiah xl. 30, 31; 


| John xi. 21-27; 1 Thessalonians iv. 13-18; Revelations xiv. 


1-4, 12, 13. 

Others will no doubt give you all the particulars which you 
can desire relating to the services of yesterday. I may men- 
tion that to-day at the American church Dr.- Van Nest remem- 
bered yourselves and other families of our countrymen recently 
afflicted very tenderly in public prayer. Many joined heartily 
with him in commending yourselves and the surviving members 
of your household to “Him who doth not willingly afflict nor 
grieve the children of men.” Human sympathies and kind 
words can avail but little to mitigate domestic grief such as 
yours; but from Him who once on earth stood at the grave of 
a friend and wept, who on the cross looked down so tenderly 
on his weeping mother, and who is still touched with the feel- 
ing of our infirmities, there come grace, mercy, and peace most 
abundant, soothing, and strengthening. That you may share 
largely in the same is the prayer of 

Your friend, _ ALEX. THOMPSON. 


New Beprorp, April 15, 1872. 

My pear Mrs. Simpson, —I fear to intrude on your grief; 
and yet I long to tell you how much I sympathize with you 
in your terrible affliction. 

Harry was a very dear friend of mine, and I hope you will 
not be displeased with me for sending these verses, which I 
could not help writing, though they do not express half that 
Peieel. 


136 


And was he then the first to fall 
Of those that started side by side, 
The noblest, truest heart of all, 
The idol of our love and pride ! 


His was a mind of manly grace, 
Of power, and yet of playful mould, 
Where pride and envy found no place, 
And honest truth maintained its hold. 


Had it been meet to grant our prayer, 
Honors and fame had sought his brow; 
Our country ill indeed can spare 


Such noble minds to guide her now. 


With generous words he ever found 
For others’ failings an excuse, 
While for himself the strictest bound 


Was not too stern for daily use. 


How sweet a joy can memory give 
To brighten still our darkened lot! 

His virtues in our hearts shall live ; 
If he had faults, I know them not. 


Few though his years, —alas, how few 
To those who hold each moment dear ! — 
Yet many a life will be more true 


For having known and loved him here. 


But, O, this loss is hard to bear ! 
May the good God who dwells above 

Help us to see through our despair 
The sunlight of his perfect love ! 


Very respectfully yours, 
Henry W. Swirt. 





137 


Mitan, April 20. 

It is very hard, dear Mrs. Simpson, to intrude upon you at this 
time of affliction, but I know that you will wish to learn every- 
thing about poor Harry’s last illness. I was with him in Rome 
after his return from Naples, till within three days of his departure 
for Perugia, and know that during that time he appeared well and 
in good spirits, and was not fatiguing himself by too much sight- 
seeing, as during the afternoons he very often stayed at home, 
saying that before he went to Naples he worked, but now he was 
enjoying Rome. 

In about five days he joined me in Florence, and during all the 
week he was well enough to go about with us, although he did not 
appear very well, and even acknowledged that he became easily 
fatigued. JI did not think him really sick, as he complained so 
little. At the end of the week, however, he called in Dr. Wilson, 
who told him that he had the Roman fever, and that he must be 
quiet for a week, and stay in bed. The doctor endeavored to get 
the malaria, which he must have brought from Rome, out of his 
system by strong doses, but alas! he did not succeed. 

Harry appeared to be getting along very well, but on the 2d of 
April he said that his headache was bad, and that he did n’t care 
to listen while I read to him. On the 3d he appeared better, and 
as Mr. Sanderson was expected the next day, I determined to go 
to Venice, as my mother was not well. On the 5th and 6th his 
fever made frightful progress, and was complicated by congestion 
of the lungs, which made the doctor think it was very serious. 
On Monday evening, when I returned from Venice, I was very 
much shocked to find poor Harry in such a fearful condition. 


His breath was very quick, and his forehead hot, but he recognized 


138 


me when I came in, and addressed me by name. In fact, though » 
he was confused, and out of his head most all the week, he seemed 
to recognize us, and was never frantic in his delirium. I will not 
repeat, as you have doubtless been informed, how, on Wednesday 
morning, he appeared to be a little better, and we had hopes that 
he might pull through, but im the afternoon he was very sick and 
restless from want of sleep. The doctor, on Wednesday evening, 
gave him a draught which did not succeed in putting him to sleep, 
and again on Thursday morning, which also had no effect. 
Thursday afternoon he was so restless that again the doctor gave 
him a draught, and he immediately went to sleep, but it was a 
~ troubled one, and he would often shake his head violently, from 
side to side. I told the doctor of this when he came at midnight, 
and he said, ‘‘ You are going to lose him. I never knew that sign 
to fail. It shows that there has been some effusion on the back 
of the brain, and it is now merely a question of hours.” From 
midnight till five a. m., Harry was quiet most of the time, and at 
five I saw that he was unconscious, and had but a few minutes 
more to live. He continued to breathe till twenty minutes after 
five, and then it was ‘all over. I will not attempt to tell you, dear 
madam, how much I feel for you and your husband, nor how much 
I sympathize with you both, as yours is an affliction which only 
God and time can soften, but I will try to comfort you by saying 
that Dr. Wilson has the best reputation in Florence, and that he 
was very attentive, coming four or five times a day, beginning at 
seven A. M., and ending at eleven, and that for the last five days he 
brought an Italian physician for consultation, and that poor Harry 
was attended by a good nurse, who spoke English, and tried very 


hard to make him comfortable, and that there were many friends 





139 


who offered to do anything in their power, so that you may not 
feel that your poor son died in a foreign land without anybody to 
assist him, but that, considering the circumstances, and that he 
was so far from his family, he had every comfort that was pos- 
sible. 

His friends had the whole upper floor of the hotel, so that there 
should be as little noise as possible. 

Mr. Lawrence, a clergyman, did everything, sitting up nights, 
and being very attentive; he was very soothing, and from long 
familiarity with the sick-room, his services were invaluable. 

Young Mr. Lawrence, of Chicago, a classmate, though he had 
lately been sick, devoted himself to your son as long as he could, 
and on the last night Messrs. Fox and Moseley were called in. 
-T have related all these little items, as death, at all times gloomy, 
is doubly so when it takes place so far from home and kindred, to 
show that, Piiesine the circumstances, he had every comfort. 

As you will probably have a full account from Mr. Sanderson, I 
will only add once more how much I sympathize with you and Mr. 
Simpson. a 

I pray God that he may soften your terrible affliction, 

Very sincerely yours, F. J. Amory. 


Paris, April 21, 1872. 
Dear Mrs. Stimpson, —I wrote you, I fear, a very strange, 
incoherent letter, on the day the terrible news came of Harry’s 
death, but my grief was so great, and my thoughts were so 
entirely with you, that I could not restrain myself from sitting 
down to write to you even while under the influence of the first 
shock. 


140 


Every day that has gone by since that sad Friday has made 
me feel more and more deeply what a gap has been made in my 
life, as in that of so many others, by the untimely end of that 
noble and promising life. The more I think of Harry the more 
I feel how far ahead he was of the men of his own age, what a 
character and what fine purposes and beliefs were his. In our 
travels and readings together last winter, we planned work to 
be done together in the future, and built many castles, and I 
have not yet got the courage to look ahead at what I meant to 
do with him, and see and realize fully what it will be without 
him. 

I wish I could find something of comfort to say to you, but 
all that I can think of is to tell you what a warm, loving, helpful 
friend he had by him in his classmate, Frank Amory. If there 
is anything I can do for you, I need not tell you what a pleasure 
it would be to me to do it; but I can think of nothing except, 
perhaps, the disposition of his presents, which he would not 
have been likely to have written home about, and a few of which 
ITremember. Don’t think me interfering, but I have been think- 
ing so much of you and yours, and longing so much to do for 
you, that it occurred to me as possible that I might help you 
in this way. My wife sends you a great deal of love and sym- 


pethy, and believe me 
As ever yours, 


H. C. Lopes. 


CaMBRIDGE, April 24, 1872. 
My pEAR Srr,—A year ago I met your son at Mr. Perabo’s, 


and was at once greatly attracted by a genial charm in him, 





141 


which only grew stronger as I saw more of him, and found in 
him so much intelligence, refinement, and a beautiful quality of 
nature. And ever since I said good by to him on the eve of his 
departure for Europe, I have looked forward in the hope of seeing 
more of him, and knowing him better on his return. 

My dear sir, I have no right to intrude upon your grief, but 
my sense of personal loss tells me how heavy must be your dis- 
appointment of hopes, how deep your sense of loss, — may I not 
say, how great your cause of thankfulness that such a son has 
been yours, that he is yours forever. 

May you all find the consolations and the consecrations which 
our Father mingles in all these great sorrows! I look at the 
portrait which he gave me on Class Day, and see those clear, 
forward-looking eyes, and I feel that he has gone onward, where 
mind, heart, and the love of all things beautiful and good will 
have their full expansion. 

Believe me, dear sir, with sincere sympathy, 

Very truly yours, 


SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. 
M. H. Simpson, Esq. 


7 CHESTER SQuarE, May 26, 1872. 
Dear Mrs. Stmpson,—I received your note, which accom- 
panied the touching and honorable tribute to your son, just as 
I was leaving on a visit to my brother at Dedham. I brought 
the packet out with me and read the contents among the beautiful 
green fields and apple-blossoms,— the types of resurrection and 
life and beauty which await the true soul in another life, or, 


rather, in the higher. unfolding of this. I am much pleased both 


142 


with the verses and the resolutions. They are the simple, manly 
expressions of young hearts, deeply moved by a great experience. 
Who can doubt that the influence of one so beloved will be a 
protection and an incitement? © 

It was a year yesterday, by the days of the week, to-morrow 
by the date of the month, since I spent the day at Andover with 
other friends at Mr. Sanderson’s room. There I parted from 
Harry for the last time here. It was a beautiful day, the heavens 
and the earth were full of the glory of God, and we were all very 
happy; as I look back upon it, there seems to have been an 
almost prophetic influence of the world beyond upon us all. 
McFarlane and Harry remained with Sanderson over Sunday, 
and the rest of us returned... .. 

I can but pray for peace to the troubled waters of your soul, 
and believe that in the future there is much peace and love for 
you, which is ever round you, only now a little hidden. 

Ever truly yours, 
Anna C. L. WaTERSTON. 


Paris, May 7, 1872. 
My pear Mrs. Simpson, — A sudden illness, from which I 
am now rapidly convalescing, has prevented my writing before. 
Few persons, I hardly think any one, knew Harry better 
than I did. For nearly five years we were the most intimate 
of friends, with thoughts, hopes, and plans often mutual, always 
shared. Half — and the better half — of my life seems gone, and 
as I look out into the future it is so strange and different 
without him that it appears the future of some other person. 


In moments of great grief words of condolence seem almost a 





143 


mockery; but now that I have grown calmer, one thought has 
afforded me so much comfort, possibly it may prove, if it has 
not already, a source of consolation to you; it is, that Harry 
is not really dead. After the first great shock was over, and 
during my illness, he was constantly with me. As I write 
this morning he is in his old seat by my fire, with the same 
bright searching eyes, the same wise young head and kindly 
heart; we talk together as we used to talk, and there is the 
same keen perception, the same ready sympathy, as of old. A 
life like his, a friendship such as his, in whose pure sunshine 
one grew strong and ruddy, does not die with death. We recall 
his pure character, which won our love, the resistless energy, 
the high purpose, and great intellect. In the greatness of our 
love we forget that it was these very qualities which made his 
“influence so precious to all with whom he came in contact ; 
which made his life a model life to the hundreds of young 
men who knew him. The lesson of that life, with its clear, 
firm outline, indelibly impressed by that other lesson of his early 
death, has. become part of ourselves, a motive power to good 
action and pure thought which will find expression in a thou- 
sand ways, and, like the oxygen in the atmosphere, be an un- 
ceasing source of health and strength, even when we are not 
directly conscious of its agency. Harry has obtained his tri- 
umph, —the triumph which of all others would be most accept- 
able to his modest nature,— to be cherished in the memories, 
to intensify the good in the lives, of all who knew him. What 
higher can be said of any man! Nor must we merely look 
upon his life as untimely cut off in its richest promise. We 


cannot measure such a life as his by the ordinary standard, 


144 


and one of Harry’s years, crowded with earnest endeavor and 
constant development, had the breadth and depth of a dozen 
ordinary ones. Our hearts should overflow with thankfulness 
that he was spared to us so long; that his life was so pleasant 
to himself and a shining example to others; that he was not 
taken away till he had sowed seeds of good in so many places, 
till the solemn and instructive lesson of his death should pro- 
duce a real though less conspicuous effect as perhaps a whole 
lifetime of active effort. In its higher meaning he was already 
old when he died; it is the Past, with its certain has been, 
which is true length of time. The Future is an indefinite, — 
a may be, or a might. 

I look over what I have written, and the coldness and un- 
feelingness of the words which seemed to express so much as I 
wrote them almost frighten me. I feel how utterly powerless 
I am to frame language for my own grief, or to administer con- 
solation to others. You have lost your son, and I my dear- 
est friend. A relation of the tenderest sympathy is established 
between us. When, as it must sometimes be, the sense of your 
affliction is overpowering, when self-control deserts you, and 
every solace, even religion, fails, can you not derive some com- 
fort from the silent, earnest sympathy reaching out to you from 
a thousand hearts, of your own and Harry’s friends, who feel 
the sacredness of your mother’s grief, who would, O so gladly, 
have prevented it, and who bear a portion of the same heavy 
Durden tare ee 

I hope you will think of me sometimes as one of Harry’s 
friends, and one who will always be glad to be of any service 


to you. 
Faithfully yours, H. E. Demine. 


145 


; SAN Francisco, May 8, 1872. 

My pear Frienps,—TI have just read in a Boston paper 
with almost incredulous eyes and a heart that would fain find 
the record untrue,—the announcement of the death of your 
son in Florence. The beautiful babe I baptized, the bright 
and studious boy, the brilliant young man,—and this is the 
end! What hopes drooped and withered at home when his life 
drooped in the foreign land! What a great vacancy it must 
have left behind in the circle of your thoughts and plans and 
dreams for this world! And not to be with him, not to touch 
his hand again, or look into his eyes, not to hear the last lov- 
ing whisper, to have nothing of home, not one dear face before 
his dimming vision as the light of earth faded upon it, — this 
must enhance the sharpness of the trial. 

Mrs. Stone and myself and all my family are deeply afflicted 
in your sorrow, and long to comfort you. But only one hand 
is soft enough and tender enough to wipe away such tears. 

We sometimes think of such a life as fragmentary and in- 
complete. By our standard it is; but by another and truer 
not so. When God’s purpose is fulfilled in any life, it is glo- 
riously rounded and perfect. Must there be wrinkles and gray 
hairs to make a human life full? Nay, indeed; if it be full of 
the love of truth and right, of the pursuit of the beautiful and 
the good, faculties improved and opportunities harvested, and 
God chosen and honored as its guide and saviour, it is a har- 
monious and finished life whenever it pauses. 

Nor is it left to us to ask what is the use of such rare en- 
dowments for so brief a career and so little positive fruit for the 


gathering of earthly hands! Such endowments are their own 


146 


reward if we look not beyond the present, and their culture 
ennobles them in the sight of God and man. A soul sweetly 
and beautifully furnished with the grace of knowledge and the 
wealth of study is by its own symmetry and harmony a power 
upon other souls, refining, inspiring, and elevating them to the 
same pure and fair ideal. It is not needed to see these powers 
_ tested in victorious work to have their influence strong and 
deathless. In their preparation for the work the best of the 
victory is won. Perhaps no biography your son could have 
lived to latest years would have left his story with so sweet 
and potent a charm upon all who knew him. 

* But this is only the beginning. Life at the longest is only 
our schooling for our true majority. The true “ career”’ is yon- 
der, not here. He finished his schooling sooner than some of 
us and was earlier promoted; that is all. Not one lavish gift 
was thrown away because they were not put to stern issues 
here and now. 

How pleasant his memory must be to you, every year of the 
past braided into it,—a golden strand. Nothing to sadden 
you in looking back over the record he has left, your heritage 
from all its progress and changes only what you can treasure 
with joy. 

If it had been your prayer, as I know it must often have 
been, that God would give you in this son a noble and spheri- 
cal life, could he have better answered you? 

This hiding of the dear face from you is not the end. It 
is the falling of a veil between your sight and a face too bright 
to look upon with earthly eyes; but the veil will soon be lifted 


again, and the young scholar, wise in the love of heaven, will. 


147 


‘ 


have his old pleasant greeting for you, enhanced in glad inten- 
sity by the lapse of intervening years. 

I have not known or heard much of his interior spiritual 
life; but I feel that he could not have lived so purely and 
stainlessly if the grace of God had not been with him. 

Our blessed Master comfort you and yours, make you to 
rest satisfied with his providence touching you so nearly, and 
willing to wait the full disclosure of his reasons in the reveal- 
ing hereafter. 

Mrs. Stone sends her love and sympathy with those of your 


pastor, and always your friend, 
A. L. STONE. 


Bast Pornt, Nawant, July 19, 1874. 
Dear Mrs. Stmpson,—lI send you by this mail a copy of 
the last North American Review. I think [ told you that Mr. 
Adams had made me the sub-editor, and the last number contains 
the first article of any length which I have yet published. I can 
only say that it represents hard work. 

All that I have hitherto done in writing for the Review has 
been trifling, so that I consider this as my first effort, and my 
start in my literary career, if I am to have one. When this article 
appeared, and I felt fairly launched in my work, the memory of 
Harry came back with renewed freshness. After leaving college I 
intended to come home and farm. One night in Rome, Harry 
and I were talking about work at home, and he told me, with a 
far more friendly than just estimate of my abilities, that he felt I 
ought to devote myself to literature, that it was a duty I owed, 


and could perform, and pointed to American history as the field. 


148 


That suggestion took a deep hold, and with the aid of Mr. 
Adams, I have at last made a beginning, which I hardly ever 
expected to make. Whatever success I may attain, at least my 
work is my great happiness. Probably I might have come to 
the same result through different means, but I shall always feel 
that to Harry I owe the impulse which may lead to such results as 
the future has in store for me. To Harry I owe much, most of 
all the memory that I had the right to call him friend. But the 
advice he gave me that night in Rome marked a turning point in 
my life, and the thoughts of that time, and the sad memory of 
the good counsel which I cannot have again, have led me to write 
you. Remember me most kindly to Mr. Simpson and your 
daughter, and believe me ever 
Your friend, 
Henry Casor Longe. 


CLASS OF 1871, HARVARD COLLEGE. 


At a meeting of the Class, held Apml 18, 1872, the 
following Resolutions were adopted on the death of our 
classmate, MicoarL Henry Simpson : — 


Since it has pleased the all-wise God to take from us our 
dear friend and classmate, Michael Henry Simpson, 

Resolved, That in our deep grief at this great and sudden 
affliction, we humbly submit our hearts to the will of God. 


That we feel that we have lost one who, of all our number, by 


149 


the great talents and noble qualities of mind, displayed in his 
already brilliant career, gave the highest promise of a life of honor 
to himself, happiness to his friends, and usefulness to his fellow- 
men. He was a student, diligent in the improvement of his many 
talents, earnest in his work, of broad and liberal thought, and 
beloved by his instructors; and we mourn deeply in him the loss 
of a friend, whose warm heart, unassuming worth, and generous, 
manly character endeared him to all. There is no one of us 
who cannot recall some pleasant word or kind action of our dear 
classmate which made life seem brighter and friendship truer, 
and there are many who in his kindness found encouragement 
in despondency, comfort in trouble, and help in misfortune. 
These rich gifts of mind and heart make it especially sad to us 
that he should be the first to be taken from those who started in 
life together. 

That the remembrance of his virtues brought vividly before us 
by his sudden death will incite us to follow his example in the 
path of duty. A true Christian, his life was pure and unselfish ; 
and bitterly as we regret the early close of a life so bright in 
promise, we still feel that he was with us long enough to exert 
on the characters of those around him a lasting influence, whose 
fruits will survive to bless his memory in the lives of others. 

That we wish to express our deep sympathy with the family 
of our beloved classmate, and trust that the knowledge of the 
good he has done may in part console them in their grief at being 


separated for a time from so dear a son and brother. 


ALBERT M. BARNES, Class Secretary. 


150 


‘THE YEARS. 


In our roadside hostels live we 
By the paths of time; 
Haste along the years, swift travellers 


With us but from chime to chime. 


*T is but a night ‘we entertain them, 
E’er they hurry on, 
Taking something, leaving something, 


Blessing ever and anon. 


First they bring us youth and beauty, 
Each some added charm, 

Ripen mind and strengthen body, 
Steal but that which now would harm. 


Still they ’re coming, still they ’re going, 
Still their gifts they change; 

All of earth they ’ve lavished on us, 
Now mid the joys of heaven they range. 


Stealing from us earth’s warm passions, 
Leave they calm and peace, 
Take, perhaps, all pure excitement, 


But they bring love’s sweet increase. 


Come then, years, as ye ’re appointed, 
Welcome each in turn, 
What ye take we need no longer, 


What ye give is rich return. 


Cambridge, September 25, 1868, Mother's Birthday. 











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